Sheniqua: Hi Leah!  Welcome to my blog! 

Leah: Thanks for having me, Sheniqua! 

Sheniqua: When and why did you begin writing?

Leah: When I was a kid I loved to play imaginary games which I think translated into writing fiction as an adult.  Since I started pursuing this full time four years ago, it’s become more of a compulsion. I HAVE to do it now.  I always heard about artists who are obsessed with painting, or whatever art they create and I used to think how neat it would be to become so passionate about what you’re doing…I’m there now and it feels good.

Sheniqua: When did you first consider yourself a writer?

Leah: Actually I’ve been writing things most of my life, but I never considered myself to actually BE a writer or never called myself a writer until after I attended my first RWA conference.  Luckily the first year I joined RWA the National Conference was in Dallas near my home.  I will never forget going into the hotel and looking around at all the other ladies who I thought were just like me – all like to sit home in their jammies and make up stuff.  I remember thinking, “These are my people!”  It was quite an experience. I’ve had lots of jobs over the years – too many, perhaps, so to finally feel like I belonged somewhere was awesome

Sheniqua: What inspired you to pen your first novel?

Leah: The very first fiction I ever wrote (but unfortunately tossed away, assuming it was not worthy of publication) was about a friend of mine who died suddenly.  The second novel I wrote was one I dreamed up while on a cruise ship.  The first was inspired by true events, the second was anything but.  Now my books do a little of both.

Sheniqua: Who or what has influenced your writing, and in what way?

Leah:  I’m LOLing as I write this, but my major influence was Danielle Steele.  Ever since childhood, my mom and I devoured her books. I know a lot of folks like to poo poo her stuff, but I loved it, still do.  She knows how to do high drama as well as anyone, I think.  In more recent years, I’ve admired Nora Roberts, for her prolific ability to crank out the books, if nothing else.   My dear friend Vicki Lewis Thompson has also been an inspiration and has given me many words of encouragement through the years, and Jane Porter.  Jane’s book Flirting with Forty was made into a movie starring one of my favorite actresses, Heather Locklear.  That is exciting!

Sheniqua: How has your environment/upbringing colored your writing?

Leah: I’ve penned a couple young adult novels about young girls and Native American tribes which were both directly influenced by my childhood growing up in Albuquerque, New Mexico.  I also wrote a historical western romance called Dead Man’s Diamond for Devine Destinies which is about the 1880’s in Tombstone. I love the west!

Sheniqua: How much of your work is realistic?

Leah: LOL Not much at all.  In my romance Kiss at Blarney Castle (Red Rose Publishing), I went to Ireland and visited all the places mentioned, yes, but nothing else in the book actually happened.  In my other book Road to Casablanca (Red Rose Publishing), I did go to Morocco in real life, and yes, there was a film festival which just ended before I arrived, but again, other than that, I made it all up.  Sheik’s Design (Red Rose Publishing) has absolutely no truth to it, nor does the story about the singer and the psychic in my novel Country Gold, although I live in Texas, so needless to say, I’ve seen a few cowboys over the years. J 

Sheniqua: Is there anything you find particularly challenging in your writing?

Staying focused, not doing more than one at a time and finishing what I start.

Sheniqua: Do you have to travel much concerning your book(s)?

For the past ten years, I’ve traveled around the world lecturing about my non-fiction works which are under my real name.  So now as a fiction writer, the book is born from the travel, not the other way around.  Other than writing fiction, travel is my other greatest love so I plan to keep on going.  There’s a lot more of the world I want to see! 

Sheniqua: What is the hardest part of writing for you?

Leah: Two things - Getting started, then finishing.  Once I’m off to a good start, I generally keep going, but there comes a point sometime after the middle where I tend to grow a bit weary.

Sheniqua: How do you get past that?

Leah: I make myself a phony deadline and pretend someone is waiting for the book, whether they are or not.  I do my best to stick to the deadline, which is how I was trained years ago when I used to be in the newspaper business.  It works!

Sheniqua: How long have you been writing?

Leah: Scary, but over thirty years now.

Sheniqua: How did you deal with rejection letters?

Leah: With chocolate.  J And lots of it….(seriously!) I’m doing better now than when I first started.  I’ve realized writing is a numbers game. If you like what you wrote chances are somebody else will too.  I’ve learned to keep going.

Sheniqua: Tell us about your upcoming projects. What’s got you excited about 2011?

Leah:  Several things.  I have the second installment of my Natalie Locke YA series book called Natalie Locke and the Sundancer coming soon.  This is a YA series about a young girl who is taken in and shown tribal secrets by a Native American tribe.  She owns a rock shop in Albuquerque and has lots of fun adventures.  The first book got really great reviews and my readers are anxiously awaiting part two and beyond.  It’s one of the most enjoyable series I do.  The other one coming out in 2011 is Nascha and the Medicine Man, also a  YA novel, from Parker Publishing.  It’s about a young black girl living in New York City whose mother dies and her grandmother is terminally ill so she is forced to go live out in the boondocks in New Mexico with the father she never knew she had – a Navajo Medicine Man.  I really loved writing that one and can’t wait for my Natalie readers to get ahold of it.

Sheniqua:  How did you wind up writing a book like Nascha?

Leah:  An editor at Parker read Natalie Locke and offered a contract on it, she loved the story so much, but to be a Parker publication, the girl needed to be of mixed race.  I didn’t want to change Natalie’s character to fit because she is so strong, so instead I “met” Nascha, and the rest is history. I plan to make a series out of her too, I love her so much.

Any other new titles coming this year?

Leah:  Yes!  From Red Rose Publishing, some of my favorites are coming – Love Letters at Sunset Hill and Man of the Year will be out later in 2011.  Not sure of the dates yet though on any of these…

Sheniqua: Love Letters sounds interesting. What’s that about?

Leah:  It’s really romantic! I think readers will find it compelling.  Here’s a blurb:

Nancy and Bill were high school sweethearts who expected to spend their lives together until

her family moved away and they thought they would never be together again.  When a chance

encounter at a high school reunion brings them back together, they engage in a love affair that

threatens to tear her marriage apart until she decides to end things.  Heartbroken Bill suffers a

stroke and moves to a remote mountain cabin where he pens love letters to Nancy and still

wonders if they will ever be together.  When her husband dies of cancer, Nancy ventures to

Sunset Hill to see her one true love.  After all these years, will Bill welcome her with open

arms, or has he moved on?

Leah: Thanks so much for having me, Sheniqua! 

Sheniqua: No. Thank you for sharing information about yourself and your novels. I am sure readers will check out Natalie Locke and the Shapeshifter on Amazon and your many titles at Red Rose Publishing.

Leah: THANK YOU, Sheniqua, for inviting me to your Blog! Wishing you much continued success with your writing! 

www.leahleonard.com

               Consciousness returned slowly, accompanied by a dizzying pain throbbing somewhere near the front of her head.  Through the pain, she noticed that she was moving up and down in a slightly erratic and oddly-familiar fashion, much like riding a chariot over a roughly undulating field. She also noticed that she seemed to be hanging upside down from the waist. Senses followed slowly – she became aware of the reek of blood and sweat, and also, which she found somewhat comforting, the smell of her own mount. She could hear at least two other mounts in addition to hers; it was possible there were more. Sight would have to go partially unsatisfied, she decided – it was probably best that they continue to think her unconscious for the moment, though she could not resist a very discreet look out of the corner of one eye. She was hanging doubled over, draped rather unceremoniously across her mount’s back. They had bound her hands and feet together by a short strap, just enough to keep her from sliding off, she thought. Finally, to complete the sensory ensemble, the metallic taste of blood crept in from the corner of her mouth, running down from the wound that was pounding in her head.

                For the moment, she remained unmoving with eyes closed while she tried to think…

…First she thought about how she got here: She had set up camp in the oasis, eating the dates she picked from the trees that grew around it’s edges. She even got lucky – in the shade of one of the larger date trees had been a peach tree. She picked a few of those to take with her for the next part of her journey. She drank and washed the sand from her throat, giving thanks to the welcome and life-giving spring that stood in obdurate defiance of the desert’s scorching heat. Fed and washed, she unrolled the soft skin that served both as shade and blanket, depending on the circumstances.

They had come upon her during the night. She had not even heard them; such was the depth to which she had succumb to the Lord of Dreams’ velvet whispers. They had grabbed her while one of them covered her nose and mouth with a foul-smelling cloth whose redolence was, mercifully, she mused later, almost covered by a thick odor that reminded her of pitch oil and pomegranates. They lifted her while the narcotic darkness begun to close in. A well-placed kick had freed a leg from one of her assailants; the resulting imbalance allowed her to shift herself enough to turn and bite the wrist to her right. When the blood began to flow, the man released his hold upon her. After that, gravity and a kick to the man that held her other leg had sufficiently freed her enough to where she, for the next couple of seconds at least, now only faced the man that held her left arm.

Instinctively she reached for the dagger she kept at her belt, but it was not there. She tried to pull away from him, but this one was both taller than her and weighed much more. He yanked her roughly back towards him, so she turned and moved with it, bringing her knee up towards that spot that – thanks to growing up with brothers – she knew that men were vulnerable.

She never saw whether or not her strategically placed strike made contact, for, at that moment, stars exploded before her eyes as the pommel of a dagger – her dagger, in fact – came crashing down upon her forehead. The beautiful, bright coruscation was all to brief however, as darkness quickly engulfed her.

                Thinking about it, even while being bound and kidnapped in the nighttime desert going to The-Djinn-Know-Where, she cannot remember if her knee made contact with her large abductor or not. Though not really pertinent to her present predicament, she still found that not knowing was really annoying to her.  It also occurred to her that she had never heard any of them speak; or, for that matter, utter a word or sound of any kind during this entire night.

Enough of that – now it’s time to decide what to do, she mentally chided herself.

Her earlier visual surveillance had shown her that they had only loosely bound her, either confident in the effectiveness of the pungent drug or in their ability to prevent her escape. Neither option, of course, precluded a short journey to an unfriendly camp, possibly populated with more men. Discreetly testing her bonds, she discovered that, were she careful enough, she could probably remove them from her wrists.  Even if she did manage to free herself from her bonds, escape would still be difficult. It was likely that her mount was not sufficiently faster than her kidnapper’s mounts to allow escape, not to mention that there was no place in the desert where one could hide.

                That ruled out flight.

                Since direct flight was out of the question, perhaps another strategy was needed. If she could bring them closer to her, there was a chance – albeit small – that she could do something. She did not know exactly what, but Fortune smiles on those who attempt to make their own. 

If she were unlucky she would lose, and she knew that losing would not be pleasant. She was confident they would keep her alive and relatively unharmed – after all, they had not yet killed her (or worse) -  but she guessed that that would not prevent them from making her regret any attempts to break free. If she was lucky, however, she could surprise them just enough to get an upper hand, perhaps hurting them sufficiently to get away. But, as there were four of them, she would have to be fast, and she would have to make each strike count. She was, after all, trained in the weaponless defense that was taught to every woman; because though weapons were exclusively for the men, there were, in rare cases, exceptions.

She was one of those exceptions.

She did not know where they were taking her – and the longer their journey continued, the more convinced of that she became, but she knew that she could not let them get to where they were going, at least not without a fight. Unarmed, the odds - even with luck - were not in her favor, but going down fighting was better than any alternatives currently running through her mind.

She waited.

- Liber Incognito

He sat in a daze on the deserted beach. As the sun started its familiar path toward the opposite horizon, his only company was the sand crabs that came out of their holes for the morning’s feast of the various marine life deposited by the outgoing tide. The waves, subtly lit by the rising sun, landed on the beach in a mocking syncopation with the pounding in his head.

            With a fog clouding his mind, he attempted to piece together last night: There was the usual, extraordinary dinner at the restaurant. They then left to navigate the snowy roads back to the house that sat behind him. He noticed that his tongue felt swollen and packed in cotton, bringing back a vague memory of the bitter taste to the Bordeaux that they had shared before he blacked out. His brain began to complain as he attempted to focus enough to remember what happened…

            He did remember that they arrived at the house to find everything as expected – the fireplace was burning brightly and the wine had been set out as instructed. They got comfortable before the fire - wine in hand and yes, with that first bitter taste, he had thought that the wine had gone bad, but, since it seemed to be a passing sensation, he dismissed it as his imagination.

            They had not even made it through the first glass when he became drowsy – surely it was just that relaxed feeling after a very good meal, he thought. Soon, however, slumber refused to let go, and he slipped into darkness with the sound of the fireplace in his ears.

            He awoke on the sofa just before dawn to a pounding headache. His mouth was incredibly dry, making speech all but impossible. Unable to call for his companion, he struggled to get up. The dizziness that threatened to engulf him suggested that that was probably not such a good idea. Ignoring the internal complaints, he dragged himself to his feet and looked in the guest bedroom, but she was not there. He looked around for her, but she was nowhere to be found; in fact, there was no trace of her having been there at all. He went from room to room looking, but it was as if she never existed.

            Returning to the living room, the invading sunlight reflected off of a piece of paper held down by last night’s still nearly-full wine bottle. Approaching the table, he picked it up and read it:

            “Please forgive me. I have led you in to a lie from which I cannot escape. It is only fair to you that I leave and that you should forget me. Do not come looking for me.”

The signature went unnoticed as the note fell limply from numb fingers. Reflexively he reached for the bottle which had, until very recently, held down the note that now lay near his feet. As his fingers closed around the bottle’s neck, the memory of that bitter taste returned once more and he left it where it sat, then made his way down to the water’s edge on the beach, hoping that the fresh sea air would help clear the mental fog and quiet the hammers that were pounding the inside of this skull.

            From the house behind him, the ringing of the telephone brought him back through the fog to where he was…. -‘Liber Incognito’

Following is work submitted by a person who seems to have potential as a writer. The writer wishes to remain anonymous so going forward the name ‘Liber Incognito’ will be the name of this author. I think this writer shows promise and I would like to know if you agree. This piece is untitled by the author but I have given it the title “The Companion”. Read it and tell me if you think this writer has the makings of a good author. – Sheniqua Waters

The Companion
  

             He sat across the restaurant table and looked into her eyes. She was not aware that her eyes reflected the candlelight in much the same way that they did the flames from the fireplace last night. As she spoke, the occasional ring from other people’s crystal glasses added a subtle percussion to the musical lilt in her voice.

            Though he knew she was speaking, he was lost - not in what she was saying, but in how she was saying it: the way that her breath delicately emphasized the accents of her words took him back to last night, when they were sharing wine and the warmth of a fire, sheltered from the snowstorm that had suddenly arrived from the north. He had arrived at the house last night while the storm was at its peak; she was huddled in her car on the side of the beachfront road with a flat tire, trying to find a tow truck in town. As it was, he pulled up at that time and offered her a respite from the snow while waiting for the driver. His thoughts were on his fortune that the tow truck could not come tonight due to the storm, and was not aware that she saw his eyes drift from the conversation while she spoke.

            She, too, remembered the fireplace and the wine and was hoping that this was where his thoughts were drifting while she spoke. If that were the case, then it was all right, because she was also reliving those same memories even while speaking about something that she, herself, was not paying attention to.  Last night had ended with the empty bottle of wine, when fatigue from the day’s events had forced them both reluctantly to bed – him to the large bedroom that faced the beach, her to the warmth of a very large, very comfortable bed in one of the guest rooms.

            Their attention was brought back to the present by the discrete cough of the waiter, who had approached the table unnoticed. She looked across and saw that he, too, was returning back to this time and place in the conversation. She thought that she detected a slight change in his visage, as if mutely irritated by the interruption.

            “Is there anything else that I can get you?” inquired the necessary intruder, clearing away the remains of tonight’s dinner (the dessert had gone largely untouched, ignored not by dissatisfaction, but by the reticence of not wanting to pause the conversation long enough to eat it). Glancing at his companion, he asked for the check as he handed the valet ticket to the waiter. “Please have the car brought around”, he stated with what she thought was a touch of impatience.

            The bill paid, they were getting in to the car as the snow began to fall once again. Looking over at his passenger, he dialed a number into his cell phone. “We will be there within the hour. Have the fireplace going and set out the Bordeaux that I asked for. Once that is done, you are through for the evening. Good night and thank you.”

            As they drove along the snow-covered road, her mind drifted back to the wine, the fireplace, and the stunning moonlit view of the winter’s beach, which could easily be seen from the wall-to-wall plate glass windows that adorned that side of the house.

            A smile played slightly across her face, reflecting back into the car’s glass by the headlights on the snow that piled waist-high on the side of the road. Nearing the house, they passed the spot where her car had been stranded last night. It had been picked that morning, towed back in town. As they drove by, neither one of them was in any hurry to have her car repaired.   - Liber Incognito

“Captain, we’ve captured an intruder.”

Without looking up from the document before him, Zak waved his hand dismissively toward the solider who had spoken and grumbled, “You know what we do with intruders.”

“Ah…Sire… You’re going to want to see this intruder,” the solider explained as he shifted on his feet.

Lifting his dark brown eyes, Zak looked at the solider. “…Well bring him in,” he snapped impatiently after a few moments.

The solider saluted acutely before turning and exiting the tent.

The quietness of the evening was interrupted by a boisterous squeal. The squeal was followed by a string of curses from a female’s voice littering the air. The soldier’s barked order combined with the raucous sound of a scuffle. Zak raised his eyebrow as the tumultuous commotion advanced toward the tent.  

“Grab her arm!” a voice bellowed a moment before the solider burst through the opening of the tent pulling the arm of a female who had a second solider holding her other arm.

Zak’s eyebrow wrinkled as he viewed the petite female sandwich between two burly men. Her dark hair was unruly about her head. As she pulled against the grip of her captors, the material of her dress yielded to the curves of her body.

Zak stood to his feet after the trio came to a stop. Looking from the female to the soldiers, he belted out. “What is the meaning of this?”

“This is the intruder I was telling you about,” came the response.

Zak stepped forward before coming to a stop in front of the female.

“This girl?” he questioned.

“Yes, Sire. She was found lurking around our camp. And, we found these on her.” The solider lifted his free hand to reveal a spear and two knives.

Zak looked at the items the solider held then he looked back at the girl. Impulsively, he started to reach out and touch her. However, as his eyes locked with hers, the venom in the girl’s black eyes gave him pause…

The above are words that were to make up my third novel. I am thinking the title would be something like Seductive Siren Snatch in the Shifting Sands of the Desert by Sheniqua Waters. Okay. Maybe not. But, the story was to be a story of a Nubian warrior queen (who has sworn off the love of a man in order to rule and fight for her people) and a powerful Egyptian pharaoh. The warrior queen’s mission is to assassinate the Egyptian pharaoh who is leading his people into her land.  But, there are other stories percolating in my mind. I could write a story about a savvy sultan or a suave pirate. On the other hand, I could write a story of a seductive sheik or a shrewd Indian warrior. It’s a dilemma. My next novel has got to be perfect. It has got to be similar to my previous two books Slave Girl and Something to Hide. So, I need your opinion. What should the next romance novel I write be about?

Written by Sheniqua Waters                                                                                                             TheWorldsBestBook.com

A deadly earthquake followed by a tsunami in Japan. Unrest in the Middle East. Concern about lay-offs at work. Sinus issues and the flu. = All things that happened in one week.

I need to get my mind off of all of the real life drama. I think I need to read a romance novel.

After all, when I read a romance novel I get drama (real life drama more often than not) but I don’t get real life suffering. The difference between real life drama and romance novel drama is at least I know in a romance novel there will be a happy ending. In times like these that is exactly what I need.

Real life drama includes me seeing footage on television of a fast moving wave swallowing up whole towns in Japan. Or footage of a guy with a bloody bandage wrapped around his head somewhere in the Middle East being carried down a street amidst gunfire. I don’t know what happened to the people who were in that town hit by the earthquake and tsunami in Japan. I don’t know what happened to the guy being carried down a street in the Middle East. But, I do know, in any romance novel I read there will be a satisfying resolution… a happy ending. No matter the obstacles, at the end of a romance novel, straight talk from the heart or a kiss will resolve the issues between the hero and the heroine. By the time I finish reading a romance novel, I will believe the future is bright. I will believe in happily ever after.

Written by Sheniqua Waters                                                                                                               TheWorldsBestBook.com

When you read a romance novel and you’re introduced to the hero, what kind of male do you expect him to be? Do you prefer a male who is kind and gentle? One who is debonair with lots of money? Or do you prefer an alpha male with muscles and a brash attitude?

I must admit my taste in heroes has changed over the years. When I started reading inspirational romances in my teens, the temperate type who was handsome yet tame, who knew how to waltz, liked the symphony and could recite a pleasant poem made my day. Now, I am at a different place when it comes to what I want in a hero. For now, it seems, when it comes to reading about the hero…the more alpha the male the better. The more muscular and macho…let me read more.

I don’t know when the alpha male wormed his way into my literary heart. I guess it was some time while I was writing my first two romance novels Slave Girl and Something to Hide. In Slave Girl, Kudar al Numan, the hero, is not like the heroes I grew up reading. He’s handsome…and knows it. He’s rich…yet cocky. On the subject of women…he is presumptuous. But, somehow, I like him. In my second novel, Something to Hide, Brock Cunningham is a struggling rancher with a chip on his shoulder. He’s brooding and moody. You know, the strong silent type who’s not one to sit around and navel gaze as he discusses his feelings.

When I was in the midst of writing these books, I remember hearing someone say that romance readers wanted to read books with strong women but not alpha males. I didn’t realize the heroes in my novels were alpha men until it was bought to my attention after the stories were published. Now, I must admit, I like to read and write about alpha men. What about you? How do you feel about alpha men? Do you like alpha men? Are they “back in style”? Did they ever go out of style? Tell me what you think.

“Do you promise to love and cherish each other as long as you both shall live?”…Undoubtedly you have heard these words uttered by a minister at a wedding ceremony. This line is then followed by the bride and the groom both saying “I Do”. Think of the couples you have known in your life. Think of your own experience. Has there been someone special in your life who you’ve loved. Has that relationship lasted a lifetime? I ask you, “Is it possible to be in a committed relationship with the person you love and have the relationship last for a lifetime?”

In today’s busy society it seems to be hard for love relationships to last. Is it true that no relationship lasts forever? Or does it just seem that way? I wonder why it seems finding your soul mate and being with that person for a lifetime is so hard to do. Is it because there are so many distractions around us such as work, television, children and the internet? Or is it that people are different than they used to be? Or maybe men and women are the same as they’ve always been. However, now because of education and financial independence individuals are better able to act on their desire to move on if a relationship hits a rough patch. What do you think?  Is it possible to be in a committed relationship with the person you love and have the relationship last for a lifetime? And, if you think it is possible, why does it seem so hard for couple to stay together? Tell me, what do you think?

Why do you read romance novels?

Trashy.  Smut. Filth. These are words people have used to describe romance novels. Why do some people insist on using derogatory terms to describe (and therefore define) the genre of romance? If you ask those same people what type of person reads a romance novel they will say ‘bored housewives’. Excuse me! Nothing could be further from the truth! Romance readers are educated. According to statistic on the Romance Writers of America website, 42% of romance readers have a bachelor’s degree or higher. And, whether working in the work place or staying at home, we romance lovers have busy fulfilled lives. So, I ask you, how can those of us who love to read romance change the image of the romance novel? 

It seems the people who bash romance novels are people who do not read them. Yet, they lump all romances into one category. The category: Trashy. Because of their lack of knowledge, no matter what the subgenre of romance whether historical, contemporary, western etc it seems these people think romance books are filled with nothing but sex. If they took the time to delve into a romantic book, they would see romance novels are much more than that. They would see romance novels are stories that celebrate the alluring love relationship between a man and a woman. They are stories with intriguing character conflicts and, of course, happy endings which propagate the notion that love conquers all.  

Take my historical novel Slave Girl. Slave Girl by Sheniqua Waters is a tantalizing story of a young Egyptian beauty who is kidnapped from the banks of theNile River and sold into slavery. She is placed on an auction block in
Constantinople and sold into a Turkish harem. Once there, she must deal with harem politics and jealousy from the other women when she becomes their Master’s, Kudar al Numan’s, favorite. Our hero, Kudar, must overcome tradition, distance and other obstacles to be with the woman he loves. While Slave Girl does contain some ravishing love scenes that is not what the story is about.  Is it possible to get those who don’t read romance to stop viewing the genre in negative terms and start viewing the genre in a different light? How can we get general audiences to see the genre of romance as one of love, hope and optimism?  What do you think? Is it possible to change the image of the romance novel? 

Sheniqua Waters