We want to welcome Jessica Jefferson to Buried Under Romance, she is sharing her writing process and an excerpt from her latest book with all of us. She also has a giveaway of a $50 Amazon Gift Card Enjoy!
Jessica Jefferson makes her home in northern Indiana, or as she likes to think of it—almost Chicago. She is heavily inspired by classic sweeping, historical romance novels, but aims to take those key emotional elements and inject a fresh blend of quick dialogue and comedy. She invites you to visit her at jessicajefferson.com and read more of her random romance musings.
Author Links
Author Links
My Writing Process
After majoring in English with hopes of becoming a teacher and writer, I somehow landed myself into the world of nursing. My career path was winding to say the least.
Eventually, I found my strength wasn’t necessarily in the caring for patients, but with the observation and evaluation of healthcare processes. My career took another unexpected turn into a role similar to that of an industrial engineer’s with performance improvement. I learned to plot out processes using post-it notes and to continually apply the PDCA (plan, do, check, act) cycle to all I do.
Now, I’m a full time writer, and part time performance improvement facilitator. And I’ve been able to apply most everything I’ve learned to my writing process.
I’ve always considered myself to be a spontaneous person. Heck, I was at the Romance Times Convention in New Orleans and without any planning what-so-ever, walked into a tattoo parlor and had my body marked for life on a whim. But I can’t write like that. I need planning- structure.
I’m currently working on my third and fourth books simultaneously, and I couldn’t be more regimented. I’m a very visual person, and transparency was a common theme throughout my previous day job. I put everything on my wall so that I can always see where it is I’m going in the story. Characters are represented by post-its and a picture of what I’d think they’d look like. Each chapter is plotted out, a series of post-its stretched across my wall. Specific lines I come up with at three a.m. are jotted down on corresponding post-its and posted in the appropriate location. Magazine clippings of furniture or colors may also be featured on my wall for inspiration. Research and notes are also posted on the wall.
It doesn’t take very much time, and it usually changes a dozen or so times before the book is written. But it does help me to feel organized and have some sort of control over this new, crazy career of mine.
Marc watched the faint outline come across the dense morning fog, becoming more discernible as it approached. The tall, thin figure was riding along at a perilous speed, given the morning’s lack of visibility. He thought perhaps it was some gangly young man misguided in the fog. It wouldn’t be the first time someone accidentally stumbled upon the vast property that made up his family’s immodest estate.
Then the fog parted in an almost biblical manner, revealing his gross inaccuracy.
Were those ... breasts?
Marc closed his eyes and thought for a moment. Typically, women didn’t ride alone at such an hour and they certainly didn’t wander unexpectedly across his property. It’d been quite a while, his last birthday to be exact, since his last intimate encounter with a woman—a gift, compliments of St. Regis—so there was always the possibility that perhaps his half-drunk, sex-starved mind had conjured up the sensual image.
He shook his head, opened his eyes, and looked back again toward the horizon.
Yes, those were most certainly breasts.
And she was most definitely not a young man. The woman’s riding habit pulled taut against her body as she raced toward him. Her hair was blowing behind her—various hues of auburn and gold, like wild flames curling about in the wind. Then a decidedly feminine voice burst through the morning’s silence, interrupting his self-doubt.
“Oh, thank goodness I found you!”
This was no mirage. She was indeed very real.
And very loud.
Then the fog parted in an almost biblical manner, revealing his gross inaccuracy.
Were those ... breasts?
Marc closed his eyes and thought for a moment. Typically, women didn’t ride alone at such an hour and they certainly didn’t wander unexpectedly across his property. It’d been quite a while, his last birthday to be exact, since his last intimate encounter with a woman—a gift, compliments of St. Regis—so there was always the possibility that perhaps his half-drunk, sex-starved mind had conjured up the sensual image.
He shook his head, opened his eyes, and looked back again toward the horizon.
Yes, those were most certainly breasts.
And she was most definitely not a young man. The woman’s riding habit pulled taut against her body as she raced toward him. Her hair was blowing behind her—various hues of auburn and gold, like wild flames curling about in the wind. Then a decidedly feminine voice burst through the morning’s silence, interrupting his self-doubt.
“Oh, thank goodness I found you!”
This was no mirage. She was indeed very real.
And very loud.
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Marcus Winston, the Duke of Grayson, has a lackluster reputation. The last in a dying line, he’s endured a protected life—rank with privilege, encumbered by isolation. After a brief encounter with rebellion, he learns the devastating consequences of his carelessness and willingly accepts living life from inside his gilded cage.
However, a chance meeting with the brazen Miss Tisdale gives Marc the opportunity to reinvent himself into the man he’s always dreamed of being. When his deception comes to light, and ghosts from both their pasts threaten to unravel the intimacy they’ve come to cherish, will either of them set their fears aside long enough to embrace love? Or will Miss Tisdale’s stubbornness divide them?
