Please welcome my guest this week, author Ruth Sims.

Q: Hello, Ruth, please share which genre you write in, and why…
A: I write fiction in more than one genre. It just depends upon the story, though most of them are historical in nature. As it has turned out, my published book, The Phoenix, as well as the upcoming 2010 release, Counterpoint: Dylan’s Story, are both gay historical romance. But I have works in progress that have no gay characters, and a couple which are contemporary. I’m easy. Whatever the characters want, they get. I’m easy.

Q: How long did you write before you received your first contract for publication?
A: Since I wrote my first story when I was six (“It was spring. The sun shined. There was a horse…” were the opening words as I recall) and my first book was published in 1994 I waited about 55 years. While I was waiting I worked full time, got married, and raised two children.

Q: So, if you don’t mind sharing, would you tell us about your latest work in progress?
A: Did you ever meet an author of anything who was reluctant to talk about it? The problem is in getting them to stop talking! This one is the third of my gay Victorian era romances. The working title is:

MAHRIME: Forbidden
Mah-ri-may

It’s the love story of two young English Rom (Gypsy) men, tried and banished from their clan because of their forbidden love, their names never to be spoken again by any Rom. (This is a punishment that’s not made up.) Cast out from their own people, they have to make their way in a hostile, anti-Rom English world. Along the way they befriend an equally disgraced young English woman who is pregnant by her employer. So now it’s three against the world.

Q: Out of all the stories you’ve written, which is your favorite?
A: Counterpoint: Dylan’s Story, though I love them all. They’re all different, so it’s like choosing one child over another.

Q: Do you need to be in a specific place or atmosphere before the words flow?
A: Oddly enough, I write better and faster if I’m not supposed to be doing it. Now that I’m retired and have a lot of time, I find myself dithering and wasting time. But if something else is going on that I’m supposed to be doing, I find myself thinking of my stories and sneaking in to the computer every chance I get, as if it’s a guilty secret. And of course I constant write in my head even if I’m nowhere near a keyboard! Only a shrink could figure this one out.

Q: What’s the strangest source of inspiration you’ve found for a story?
A: Roadkill. I saw a poor kitty that had been hit by a car and I started to write something about it, because it shook me up. Eventually my few words morphed into a short story called TOM: An Improbable Tail, which ended up being in two different anthologies in the same year and is now a free read at AllRomanceEbooks: http://tinyurl.com/bknlb6 Well, you did say “strangest”. Of course the finished story bears no resemblance to the “inspiration” except that one of the main characters is a cat. A were-cat, to be exact.

Q: If you could offer one tidbit of information for new writers, what would it be?
A: I have two, actually. (1) Keep at it. (2) Don’t be afraid to revise; every piece of writing can be improved.

Q: Do you have an evil day job or do you write full time?
A: I had an evil day job for a long time, but due to the happy occurrence of a chronic health issue that made it difficult to work, I retired.

Q: What do you like to do in your spare time?
A: Spend time with my family, which includes three granddaughters; read, write reviews of books that impress me, visit with friends, cook and bake, scratch my old cat’s tummy and listen to her purr. Eat things I shouldn’t.

Q: Name one thing readers would be surprised to learn about you.
A: I was brought up to be very, very conservative, in a fundamentalist religion that was to the right of LDS.

Q: What’s your favorite dirty word?
A: religion-in-politics

Q: What’s your favorite holiday, and why?
A: Christmas. I love to buy things for people and can afford to do it only once a year.

Q: Do you have any tattoos or piercings?
A: Lord, no! I never, ever, willingly do anything that hurts. Only if they put me totally “out” with a general anesthetic would I do either! I mean, I can faint from a hangnail.

Q: If you could be intimate with three people (not necessarily all at one time *g*) without getting in trouble with your significant other, who would they be?
A: Depends on what you mean by intimate. Physically? Nobody. Heck, at 70 I don’t have the energy. But intellectually…ah, that’s different! Sharing thoughts is the greatest intimacy of all. I’d love to spend hours talking to Harvey Fierstein, Ken Burns, and Ellen DeGeneres.

Q: If you were stranded on a desert island, what three things would you want with you?
A: Counterpoint: Dylan’s Story (well, I can’t help it. It’s very good if I say so myself). Plus two large boxes: one with my family pictures and the other with my laptop and extra batteries. (Three boxes = three things. How’s that for being sneaky?)

Q: If you won the lottery tomorrow, what would you spend the money on?
A: How big a lottery are we talking? Oh, let’s say it’s a Powerball. There’s nothing in particular I want to buy because at my age if I don’t already have it I don’t want it. I don’t need anything else to worry about, insure, or dust. First, of course, I’d make sure my granddaughters had enough to go through college. I’d help my kids out financially, and it would be great to know my husband and I would never be a financial burden on our kids when we got even more doddery than we are now. Then I’d make big donations to charities I’ve never been able to give more than a pittance to, such as the Shriners Crippled Children Hospitals. I’d set up a scholarship for students who intend to make a career in writing. I’d make an endowment to PBS, and local charities who are hurting for money these days. There are so many things it would be wonderful to have the money for. I guess maybe I’d better start buying lottery tickets!

Q: Which household chore do you abhor and why?
A: All of them but cooking. My dust bunnies are so large they have their own social security numbers, and the US census counts them as children.

Q: What’s your favorite comfort food?
A: Pralines & cream ice cream. Which I can’t have because I’m diabetic. Damn.

Q: Do you have any guilty pleasures you feel comfortable sharing?
A: Watching very bad “horror” movies from the 50’s. The kinds of films they showed on Mystery Science Theatre 3000, and MST3 itself when I can find it.

Q: Do you have a favorite book or movie?
A: So many of both it’s awfully hard to choose. John Brown’s Body by Stephen Vincent Benét is one of the most remarkable books I’ve ever read about anything. Favorite films – again, too many to choose from — but “Rent” is the one I’ve watched repeatedly most recently. And I just bought the “Rent” soundtrack.

Q: Anything else you’d like to share?
A: I love hearing from my readers. There’s nothing that can brighten up a discouraging day or make me feel more like continuing in this crazy business, like hearing from a reader. It’s as good as pralines & cream ice cream. Please, please, please write to me if you like my books! ruth.sims@gmail.com

Q: In closing, tell us a bit about your latest release (& share a yummy excerpt for those who aren’t yet familiar with your work)
A: I’m in between releases right now. The Phoenix (2nd edition, revised) was released by Lethe this year. And Counterpoint won’t be out until next year. Since I have excerpts from The Phoenix at my website: www.ruthsims.com, I’ll be a tease and put an excerpt from Counterpoint.

Excerpt from Counterpoint: Dylan’s Story
~~~~~~~~~~~

The scene below is a late 1890’s London music hall. Composer Dylan Rutledge has gone out of curiosity to hear Geoffrey Dohnányi, a young Rom (Gypsy) violinist, perform. They had met before and their dislike and rivalry had been instantaneous. Dylan is prepared to be completely unimpressed by this moderately talented nobody. It’s an evening that will change both their lives. (“Chavula” is Geoffrey’s stage name, and the fulsome introduction is bogus.)
==========
A man in a tail coat came out from the wings. Smoothing his impressive handlebar mustache, he bellowed, “Ladies and gentlemen, a few weeks ago La Bohème had the great pleasure of introducing you to higher class entertainment when we introduced a world-famous ar-teest who’s a favorite with all of you and even your kiddies. After a triumphant tour of wild, romantic Hungary where he played for the king he has returned. Here he is by popular demand, the star of the evening: London’s own Prince of the Gypsies, youngest son of the King of the Gypsies—Chavula Dohnányi!” The applause and whistles were deafening. Geoffrey strode onstage with a confident swagger.

Tight black trousers were tucked into calf high, polished black boots which emphasized his long legs and lean build. He wore a white blouse unbuttoned to the wide, fancifully embroidered sash of blue, crimson, and gold that was knotted at his waist. His curly dark hair was brushed back and the gold hoop was audaciously displayed. He lowered his head slightly and threw a seductive glance at the audience, emphasizing it with a slow grin.

The mother in the box breathed, “Cor’. He’s so byoo-tiful.” Her husband growled, “A bloody mandrake, I don’t doubt.” The whistles became louder, and then Geoffrey’s expressive face became serious. He tucked his violin beneath his chin and positioned the bow. Silence fell like a blessing upon the raucous crowd.

Dylan had never heard a violin played as Geoffrey Dohnányi played that night. The piano accompanist floundered and quit; no one noticed. Geoffrey’s slim body was in constant motion from head to feet, almost dancing when he played a czardas that had the people clapping in rhythm, slow … slow … faster … faster … and still faster until his fingers were flying over the strings. He stopped, breathing hard; the rhythmic hands burst into wild applause. He played songs they could sing. He played Schumann. He played musical jokes, making the violin hiccough, and whine, and scold. He played magic.

Suddenly Dylan did gasp aloud. St. Joan! Dohnányi was playing the theme from his St. Joan! But he dared—dared to alter the theme itself! Bad enough that he had once criticized the first violin and cello parts, but to alter the theme was unpardonable! And yet … He listened, frowning. Dohnányi’s improvised double stops produced a grating dissonance perfect for portraying the fatal flames that reached for the Maid of Orleans.

The audience was uncertain how to react to the serious music. The applause was more of a question than an accolade. “What kind of music was that?” yelled the man in Dylan’s box, waking one of his children. “Need a new fiddle, boy?” Scattered boos answered the man. With effort Dylan resisted the urge to drag the idiot into the street. One may as well paint rainbows for the blind!

Geoffrey’s skin shone with perspiration as he bowed low. He straightened and spoke. “I wish to close with a song I remember from many years ago when I played with my father. It is called Romnichel. I dedicate it to my people.” Geoffrey positioned the violin once more and drew the first melting tones from the strings. Romnichel was sound wrapped in velvet. The simple, rich melody spoke of wide, black skies with a single star, of the smells of dewy grass and rich, damp earth. Romnichel invaded Dylan’s being in a fever of both mind and body. He knew he would feel that music so long as he lived.

There was a momentary hush as the song ended. Geoffrey slowly raised the violin and bow as if offering them to the god of music. The silence was broken by an eruption of applause. As the audience applauded and stamped, whistled and called for more, Geoffrey bowed again before leaving the stage.

Dylan pushed against the crowd streaming through the door. He had to talk to Geoffrey. Had to! He found his way to the backstage area that he hoped led to the dressing rooms. Power! he thought. Such power! And he’s so young! I’ve got to talk to him—damn it, he shouldn’t have changed my work without—my god, the power—I wish I didn’t want him—must talk to him—beautiful, so beautiful—and he didn’t know whether he meant Geoffrey or the music. When he saw Geoffrey standing in the doorway of a dressing room, he was not alone. Dylan stopped short.

A well-dressed man was with him. Geoffrey held his violin case in one hand and with the other he unlocked the dressing room door. The other man said something and laughed. Geoffrey smiled wearily, glanced up and his eyes met Dylan’s. His lips parted as if he were confused. When the man slipped his arm around Geoffrey’s shoulders and nuzzled his ear, Geoffrey looked away from Dylan. They entered the dressing room. The door closed. Dylan heard the short, dull sound of a bolt going into place and was shaken by a strange, unreasoning anger.

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For more information about Ruth Sims, please the following sites:
Author’s website: http://www.ruthsims.com/
Author’s book review blog: http://www.reviewsbyruth.wordpress.com/