Welcome to Louisa Edwards' guest blog

Welcome Ms. Louisa Edwards to Love Romances and More, thank you for joining us.

Thanks for having me!

You have been an editor for a major print publisher and now you have so to say changed the side, did you always want to become a writer?

I always thought of myself as a reader, first and foremost. All editors love to read; they have to! And even though I married and moved away from New York, I never stopped reading. Writing was a logical next step.

What is the most and the least interesting fact about writing?

My favorite thing about writing is the constant discovery. It’s fresh and new every day; the more I write, the more I learn about my characters. And the more I research, the more I learn about the world they inhabit. Constantly fascinating! Less interesting, perhaps, is the part of being an author that no one mentions when you start writing a book: promotion. I love parts of promotion that involve actually interacting with readers and the larger writing community, like blogging and interviews such as this one, but the behind-the-scenes, nuts-and-bolts of sending out ARCs and bookmarks can get tedious. Maybe I should get an assistant! LOL

How do you plan to celebrate your first release?

I’m celebrating the launch of my Recipe for Love series with a party at one of my favorite Manhattan restaurants, Blue Hill. The chef, Dan Barber, is one of the foremost proponents of farm-to-table dining in this country—he’s one of the examples I used when deciding what sort of chef my hero, Adam Temple, would be.

How did your family react to fact that you also write romance novels? Have your family read your book?

My family is incredibly supportive. Both my parents were some of my first readers for Can’t Stand the Heat, and my husband helped me polish the final draft. My sister, the only other avid romance reader in our family, helped all the way through the process, from concept to testing the cocktail recipes in the back of the book.

Most authors are also avid readers. Is this the case with you? If so, who are some of your favorites? Have any influenced your writing?

The first romance I ever remember reading was The Shadow and the Star by Laura Kinsale. There will always be a big spot on my bookshelf reserved for historicals—since that first taste, I’ve read everything Laura Kinsale ever wrote! Other historical faves are Eloisa James and Lisa Kleypas. More recent discoveries are Jennifer Ashley and Tessa Dare.

You’re going to be so sorry you asked me this question! Because now I’ve started, I can’t stop. Even though I can’t write them to save my life, I love to read paranormals like J.R. Ward’s Black Dagger Brotherhood series, Deidre Knight’s Gods of Midnight, and Kresley Cole’s Immortals After Dark.

I do less with romantic suspense because I’m kind of a wimp—serial killers and dark, grisly plots give me nightmares! But I adore Roxanne St. Claire’s blend of romance and adventure in the Bullet Catcher books, and perhaps my favorite author of all is Suzanne Brockmann. Her Troubleshooter series is an automatic buy, in multiple formats, for me! Her ongoing romantic subplots that span several books were a big influence on me, especially Jules and Robin.

And of course, I have to give credit to the wonderful contemporary authors who’ve gone before me. Jennifer Crusie (Faking It changed my life), Susan Elizabeth Phillips, Susan Donovan, Susan Mallery (so many Susans!), and a newer name whose books make me hurt myself from laughing too hard, Victoria Dahl.

Every book I’ve ever read has influenced my writing in some way.

Do you feel each of your characters live with you as you write? Do their lives sometimes take over a part of your life? Can you name an example? Do you have living role models for your characters?

My characters do take on a life of their own. I never really bought it when authors would say things like, “My heroine wouldn’t cooperate!” I always thought, “Oh, come on. Who’s riding who, here? Just write it how you want it!” But now that I’ve got my own recalcitrant characters to deal with, I understand what those authors meant. As the book goes along, the characters grow beyond your original concept of them, getting layers and depth and all that good stuff, so that sometimes what made perfect sense when you wrote your synopsis becomes impossible to reconcile with the character as you’ve come to know her.

Where do you get the inspirations for your books?

I wouldn’t go so far as to call them “living role models” but my biggest inspirations for my chef hero, Adam, were chefs. I’m completely addicted to “Hell’s Kitchen” and “Top Chef”; I devour anything Anthony Bourdain writes. Michael Ruhlman’s wonderful series (The Making of a Chef, The Soul of a Chef, The Reach of a Chef) also sparked lots of ideas.

Do you find it difficult at times to write love scenes?

Sometimes I need to loosen up with a glass of wine while I write them, and I definitely have to block the fact that my mother will eventually read it from my mind, but the love scenes usually flow pretty easily.

CAN’T STAND THE HEAT is your first book, was it easy to write and if not where were the difficulties?

CStH is my first published book, but it’s not the first book I ever wrote. There are two learning manuscripts buried on my hard drive, and I worked out a lot of my issues on those. CStH was easier to write than those first two, because I finally allowed myself to write exactly what I wanted, without worrying whether it would sell—which turned out to be the magic formula!

If you could change places with one character from your book, who would it be and why?

My heroine, Miranda Wake. I couldn’t pass up the chance to have Adam teach me to cook!

If you could travel through time to visit a special time period or famous person, what or who would it be and why?

After having just seen Julie & Julia, I’m going to have to say Paris, 1949 so I could meet Julia Child. And maybe go to the Cordon Bleu with her! That would be amazing.

Do you listen to music while you are writing and if so what music is it?

I can’t really listen to music while writing, but I often put something on to pump myself up and get in the right frame of mind before I begin. With CStH, it was 70’s punk: The Ramones, The Clash, Sex Pistols, Buzzcocks, New York Dolls…which will makes sense to you if you’ve read the book. : )


If CAN’T STAND THE HEAT would be a made into a movie who would you choose as the cast?

I’d need someone charismatic, energetic, and irrepressible to play Adam. With his wavy dark hair and mischievous grin that only hints at the intensity lurking in his brown eyes, I think Dominic West would work very well. For Miranda, my snarky food critic who needs to learn to unwind, I’d cast the ever-adorable Amy Adams. Amy has a softness to her that rounds out Miranda’s edges. She also has a core of strength that is essential for a young woman who had to grow up overnight when her parents were killed, leaving Miranda to care for her heartbroken younger brother, Jess.

Jess, who drops out of college and onto Miranda’s doorstep with his camera and a whole lot of baggage, is a tough one. But I think Aaron Ashmore of Smallville fame could definitely pull off Jess’s blend of innocence and insight. By contrast, the easiest character to cast is Frankie Boyd, Adam’s punk-rock sous chef and best friend. Without a doubt, Justin Theroux is the man for the job; he embodies wild, soulful, tough-as-nails and loyal-to-a-fault Frankie to perfection.

Believe me, I could give you the complete cast list from Adam’s Southern gentleman restaurant manager who hires Jess as a waiter to the burnt out celebrity chef who hates Miranda’s guts, but maybe they can wait until the next book comes out…

Big congrats to your debut, CAN’T STAND THE HEAT, can you please tell us something about the book?

For sharp-tongued Miranda Wake, the chance to spend a month in Adam Temple’s kitchen to write an exposé is a journalistic dream come true. Surely Miranda can find a way to cut the hotshot chef down to size once she learns what really goes on at his trendy Manhattan restaurant. The trouble is, she never expected Adam to find out her most embarrassing secret: this critic has no idea how to cook.

As for Adam, well, he’s not about to have his reputation burned by a critic who doesn’t even know the difference between poaching and paring. He’ll just have to give the tempting redhead a few private lessons of his own—teaching Miranda what it means to cook with passion.

Are you working on anything right now, and can you tell us a teaser about these projects?

The second book in the Recipe for Love series is On the Steamy Side, and it comes out in March of 2010! And I’m already working on the third instalment, as yet untitled, which will be out next fall. Sign up for my newsletter on the Contest page of my website for updates on new releases, excerpts, free reads, contests, and more!

Here’s the teaser for On the Steamy Side:

When Lilah Jean Tunkle fled her dull life in Virginia for the bright lights of New York City, she didn’t expect to wind up a nanny to a gorgeous celebrity chef’s ten-year-old son. Working for the delectable Devon Sparks is a sure-fire recipe for disaster, especially after Lilah gets a tantalizing taste of his perfectly seasoned kisses …

Devon’s not sure he can handle one more surprise ingredient in his life—he quit his popular TV show, his culinary reputation is on the line, and now the son he barely knows is back for seconds. Lilah’s Southern sass is supposed to keep the boy in line, but soon enough she’s teaching Devon a thing or two about homespun food…and turning up the heat.

Contest: One lucky commenter will win this prize that you see on the left hand side. (Sorry no oversea winner this time). Please check back tomorrow to see if you are the lucky winner. Good luck!

Excerpt of Can't stand the heat:

Chapter One

It was the sort of party where Miranda Wake knew every guest by face or reputation, but had never spoken to any of them. At least, not in person. Of course, she’d received irate phone calls from several of the chefs present, after one of her less-than-glowing reviews, but that didn’t really count as a formal introduction, she didn’t think.
Well, not enough to form the basis for polite cocktail party conversation. Impolite conversation, maybe. Miranda caught herself smirking, and pulled her mouth back into its customary noncommittal line. It was harder than she expected. She blinked. The room and everyone in it wavered slightly.
“Why won’t all of you no-talent hacks stand still?” she said, a little startled at how loud her own voice seemed in her ears. When had she lost volume control? Several people turned to stare, and Miranda tilted her chin up, daring them to say anything. She felt brittle and dry, like crumpled-up paper—after the day she’d had, it wouldn’t take much of a spark to make her go up in flames. Someone jostled her elbow, and Miranda turned with a frown and found her editor, Claire Durand, staring at her.
There was an incredulous look on Claire’s normally serene countenance, her perfectly plucked eyebrows arching upward as she took in Miranda’s struggle to keep a straight face.
“Miranda,” she hissed, her French-accented voice giving the “r” in the name extra emphasis. “How many of these apéritifs have you had?”
Miranda leaned in a little and whispered, “In America, we call them ‘cocktails.’ ”
Claire pursed her red-lipsticked mouth, and Miranda tried to remember what that was called in France. “A moue?” she said out loud, without meaning to.
The eyebrows snapped down. “Merde,” she cursed. “But I watched you! I would swear you had no more than I.”
Miranda thought about it. “Yes,” she agreed. “But you’re French. You were probably given wine as an infant.”
Miranda blinked. “I . . . wasn’t.”
Looking around wrathfully, Claire said, “Of what are these concoctions made? Is the chef trying to poison us?”
Miranda, who still had her empty glass, took an experimental sniff. “Don’t think so,” she said. “Smells like roses. Which are edible. Or, in this case, drinkable. No, that’s wrong. What’s that word?”
Why was she having such a hard time with words to night? They were usually her specialty. Callously ignoring Miranda’s vocabulary difficulties, Claire flagged down one of the circulating waiters. “You. What is in the cocktail, please?”
The young man appeared to shrink under Claire’s stern glare, but stammered, “Rose-petal-infused vodka and fresh Hudson Valley raspberries.”
Claire let go of his arm, and the boy wasted no time in making his escape. Miranda watched him go with some disappointment; that rose-vodka-berry thing really had been yummy. She thought she might quite like another one. Third time’s the charm. Or was that fifth?
But all visions of sweetly perfumed liquor left her head when Claire turned the eyebrows on her again. This time they were accompanied by a tight pinch at Miranda’s elbow, as Claire manacled her arm and attempted to sidle them both closer to the wall.
“Ow,” said Miranda, allowing herself to be led.
“Thank God for atmospheric restaurant lighting,” Claire breathed, smiling graciously at a curious fellow guest. Miranda peered at his face as she was hustled past.
“Was that the critic for the Post?” she asked. Miranda’s volume control was evidently still hit-or-miss, because Claire winced and tightened her grip.
“Ow,” Miranda reminded her with greater emphasis.
“Randall Collins. Was it? I should say hello. His one review, of that tapas place, was inspired.” She paused. “Or do I mean ‘inspirational?’ Because it sure inspired me. Before reading that review, I didn’t know you could even print some of the names he called that chef.”
“Oui, oui, I’m certain he changed your life, and I, for one, am grateful to him, but you are in no condition to tell him so. If I permit you to speak with him now, tomorrow you would throw yourself from the Brooklyn Bridge, and then what should I do? I would have to find a new restaurant critic with your gift of vitriol. Who else could I find to take on the titans, like Devon Sparks and his new Las Vegas monstrosity? Remember how much fun that was? And think—if you commit career suicide, you’ll never have the
chance to write your book and become a world-famous best-selling author.” The remark flicked right over the raw, open wound of that afternoon’s letter from Empire Publishing. “It doesn’t matter,” Miranda wailed. “No publisher is ever going to buy my book.”
“That’s simply not true,” Claire stated, as if being decisive about it would make it so. She succeeded in manhandling Miranda to a standstill in a shadowed alcove. Miranda felt a wall at her back and leaned gratefully.
“The room is spinny,” she told Claire.
The older woman laughed and said, “I’m sure it is. Whatever has gotten into you to night?”
“I got another rejection on the book,” she confessed.
“Oh! You poor dear.” Claire was instantly sympathetic, and Miranda smiled at her. “What was the reason this time?”
The highlights from the letter were emblazoned on her brain. “They thought my publicity platform wasn’t strong enough for a non-fiction proposal, and the part about the restaurant culture didn’t feel believable. It just wasn’t ‘authentic.’” She made sarcastic air quotes with her fingers, still burning with frustration over that particular comment. “I mean, I know I haven’t worked in a restaurant, but I reviewed them for three years, freelance, before you hired me. And Jess has been waiting tables since high school!”
“How is your adorable brother, by the way?”
Claire was awfully quick to leap onto a new subject, Miranda noticed. It was possible she was getting tired of commiserating over the stack of rejection letters Miranda had piled up as she shopped her idea for a book examining the rise of celebrity chefs and modern restaurant culture. Unfortunately, the topic of Jess was a minefield all on its own.
“Funny you should ask,” Miranda said. “Not funny, haha, though. More like funny, oh, crap.”
“What has happened at that godforsaken college of his?”
Claire had sniffed disdainfully when Miranda was proud that her younger brother had been accepted to Brandewine University in Brandewine, Indiana, on a full visual communications scholarship. Claire distrusted pretty much all the states in the middle of the country and had a hard time believing anything good came from them. The thought of that scholarship was enough to bring some of the room back into unpleasant focus. Where was a waiter bearing rose-vodka-berry things when you needed him?
“Jess is home,” she said.
Claire brightened. “But that is marvelous! Now you’ll have all summer together.”
“It is,” Miranda said. “But it’s not just for summer break—he quit Brandewine. Showed up at my apartment this afternoon, about ten minutes after I opened that rejection letter from Empire Publishing. Jess brought three duffel bags, his camera, and not a single word of explanation.”
“And you took him in without a murmur.”
It wasn’t a question, but Miranda nodded. “He’s my brother. Even if I’ve got no idea what’s going on with him, what would induce him to leave a full-ride scholarship—even if he refuses to tell me what happened? It doesn’t matter. I could never turn him away. But he’s damn well going back to Brandewine next semester, or I will know the reason why!”
No matter what was going on with Jess, Miranda would take care of him. That was her job. It had been her job since their parents died in a car crash when she was eighteen, leaving a heartbroken ten-year-old son and a daughter who’d had to grow up overnight.
“I guess we’re not as close as we used to be,” she said, and the words tasted like ash in her mouth. Like failure. Claire shrugged with Gallic fatalism. “But that is normal, no? How many younger brothers tell their sisters, especially a sister who has been both mother and father to them, what is happening in their lives?”
“Well, it’s not normal for us,” Miranda insisted. “At least, I don’t want it to be. He’s all I have.”
Claire frowned at her. “Nonsense. You are becoming maudlin. Stay here.” Muttering something about Americans being unable to hold their liquor, she left Miranda leaning against the wall. Miranda rolled her head to the left, scratching her cheek against the chic exposed brick. The rough edges caught at her hair, pulling like a hundred tiny fingers. She rolled her head to the right, then forward, just to feel it again. Once she’d tilted her head down it was sort of hard to lift it up. She contemplated her sensible, all-purpose black cocktail dress. The fruits of her first week’s labors at Délicieux magazine. It had turned out to be a good investment; the Ralph Lauren design was a classic, still in style, even a year later. The neckline plunged enough to give her cleavage, but not so much that men spoke to her chest rather than to her face. And the clingy material outlined the waist she worked so hard to keep trim while trying all those innovative
desserts for her monthly column. The shoes, though. Miranda gazed at her crimson pumps, her spirits lifting slightly. The dress was nice. Serviceable. The shoes were a decadent indulgence. Red satin with black lace overlay, peep toe and wickedly sharp heel. Every time she put them on, she felt just the teeniest bit vampy.
She wouldn’t normally wear them to a professional function, but after the soul-crushing news that yet another publishing house wouldn’t be helping her break into the prestigious, lucrative world of book publishing, and Jess’s dramatic arrival, she’d needed something. The shoes had beckoned her from the back of the closet, whispering about boosting confidence and the lift a woman gets only from a truly stunning pair of heels, and that was it. She’d kicked off the plain black pumps and slipped on the red satin, and
left the apartment before she had a chance to reconsider.
God, she so didn’t want to be here right now. Half her brain was still at home in her cozy apartment, staring blankly at her brother’s tight mouth and exhausted eyes, wondering exactly when she stopped understanding the one person she always thought she knew better than anyone else. But no. The rest of her brain was soaking in vodka at this meaningless party for a restaurant that wasn’t even open yet, but would probably close in a year, because way more than half of them did, and what was the point of it all anyway?
“What are you scowling at?” Claire demanded, startling Miranda out of her reverie.
“Never mind,” Claire continued, before Miranda could open her mouth. “Drink this.” She was holding two delicate glasses full of darkly pink liquid. Miranda licked her lips, reaching for one. “Really?
I thought you wouldn’t let me have more.” She drank eagerly, making a disappointed noise when she reached the bottom of the glass. The alcohol hit her system like a kick to the head, and the room’s colors suddenly pulsed a shade brighter, going in and out of focus.
“When one has reached the sentimental stage, the only way out is more alcohol. I need you up, not drooping. The show is about to start.”
So saying, she shoved the second drink into Miranda’s hand and pulled her back into the throng of mingling guests. But even with the renewed buzz of icy sweet vodka burning in her stomach, all Miranda could really hope was that the party would be over soon. Red shoes or not, she was in a dangerously bad mood.