The Book Within with Guest Blogger: Maureen Fisher

Win a copy of Fur Ball Fever &
chat with romantic crime mystery author,
Maureen Fisher today at the Book Boost.

She's here to chat about something called...The Acorn Theory...and here's what she had to say...


I’m not one of those people who knew as soon as I sprang from my mother’s womb that I was destined to be a writer. No way. Far from it. I didn’t carry around a pen and notepad to scribble down pearls of wisdom. I wasn’t brimming with plot ideas. I almost never heard snippets of conversation in my head.


But, looking back at my earliest memories, I can see that the seeds were, indeed, there.


I’m re-reading a book called The Soul’s Code: In Search of Character and Calling, written by leading Jungian psychologist and PhD, Dr. James Hillman. In the book, he describes what he calls, “The Acorn Theory,” proposing that in the acorn lies the DNA of the future oak. An acorn doesn’t look like an oak, but it contains the genetic material required for growing into an oak as opposed to, say a turnip, or a daffodil, or a maple. Similar to the oak, Dr. Hillman proposes that everyone is born with a defining image or a calling, which is innate at birth and which manifests itself throughout our lifetime.


This got me wondering about my own elusive calling. Is my defining image really that of a writer? After all, for years, I thought it was something a tad more analytical--a computer programmer, for example, or a management consultant. If Dr. Hillman’s theory is true, then surely there must have been some evidence of my calling in my early childhood.


And so, I took a trip down memory lane. Ever since I can remember, I have always loved books. My earliest memory is a hazy recollection of my two-year-old self snuggling up on my grandmother’s lap while she read a story book to me. Shortly before I turned three, my next and more vivid memory is of toddling into my beloved grandmother’s room clutching my favorite book. Although I didn’t know it at the time, she was dying of cancer. She took one look at me and said, “I’m sorry, my wee lamb, but I’m too sick to read to you today.” And I clearly remember answering, “But it’s for you to read to yourself. It will make you feel all better.” In my almost-three-year-old opinion, a good book held miraculous healing powers.


Fast forward to age four. Still dependent on the whim of adults for my reading pleasure, I wanted to read books by myself. Fortunately for me, British schools at that time were pretty advanced in their curriculum. I learned to read and write by the time I turned five. After that, there was no stopping me. Painfully shy, I immersed myself in imaginary worlds, devouring Winnie the Pooh, The House at Pooh Corner, Peter Pan, the Enid Blyton adventure series, Nancy Drew, Trixie Belden, Treasure Island, Children of the New Forest, Robinson Crusoe, The Swiss Family Robinson, and countless more. I read paperbacks, I waded through hardcover. At school, I excelled at English composition.


Looking back, I can see that the seeds of a writer were present at birth. Those seeds germinated early, but lay dormant for many years, waiting until climate and soil were right. Now the seeds have sprouted and are bearing fruit.


What are some of your earliest memories? Can you recognize the seeds of your defining image or calling in those memories?


A Note from the Book Boost: I, too, have always been addicted to books. I spent every penny I could earn from doing chores on weekly reader purchases from the school catalog. I checked out as many books as the librarian would allow and even still...accompanied my mother to the used book store on a weekly basis. I love how books feel, smell, and the voices of characters living in my head are many and marvelous. Thanks for joining us today, Maureen. Please tell us more about your book!



Blurb:

Fur Ball Fever is a romantic crime mystery spiked with attitude (most of it warped) and enough steamy sex to drive those who dare read it racing for a cold shower …

After a lifetime of impetuous mistakes, pet spa owner Grace Donnelly outdoes herself when she loses her elderly client’s prize pooch—a shoo-in to win the annual Jersey Shore Fur Ball. Money, careers, and lives are in jeopardy. Too bad her helpers consist of an aging hippie aunt, a renegade schnauzer, and a drag queen. Worst of all, the only man truly qualified to help is her former flame, the hunkiest bodyguard north of the Mason-Dixon Line.

Security specialist Nick Jackson faces his worst nightmare when Grace’s amateur investigation nearly blows his undercover operation. Unless he nails the con-artist who scammed local seniors and whacked a witness, his homicidal granddaddy will take justice into his own liver-spotted hands. To salvage his case, his sanity, and his ex-lover’s velvety skin, Nick joins forces with the sassy crusader who rubs him the wrong way—and so many right ways too.

Action bounces between a beach harboring washed-up corpses, a fancy yacht no honest preacher could possibly afford, and the bawdiest nightclub in Atlantic City. Hazards multiply like bunnies until exploding into romance, murder, and mayhem culminating in a Fur Ball extravaganza the locals will never forget.


Excerpt:

When Nick freed Grace's lips, her breath was coming hard and fast. More turned on than she could ever remember, she took another risk. Still gasping for air, she explained, “Most bondage scenarios revolve around a fantasy.” She paused for a beat, gathering her courage.

“You said I’d be in charge,” she reminded him. “I want to act out a fantasy.”

He gave an audible gulp. “Anything specific?”

“Mmmm-hmmm,” she said around a deep, shuddering breath. One fantasy had tantalized her thoughts and tormented her dreams ever since she’d laid eyes on Nick. Breathing hard, she raised her head. “You’re the white knight. I’m a fair maiden you’re rescuing from the clutches of an evil ogre who has tied her up.”

His eyes blazed. “I can live with that, darlin’,” he said. “Is this fair maiden conscious or unconscious?”

A wave of hot desire thickened her speech. “Sleeping. The white knight is trying to awaken her.” Suffused with the heady liberation of surrender, Grace closed her eyes and held her breath. She didn’t have to see Nick to feel the heat of his gaze scalding her skin. The tension became unbearable.

Then the mattress sank under his weight. Although he didn’t touch her, his body radiated heat. The aroma of sandalwood and hungry male enveloped her. She compressed her lips on the moan that struggled to escape. If the white knight didn’t do something, and fast, she would jump clear out of her skin—if she wasn’t cuffed to the bed.

His mouth skimmed her cheek, trailed heat down her jaw line, feathered tiny kisses down her neck. He stopped above her right breast. She pictured him staring. Her nipples throbbed with anticipation, longing for the tug of his mouth. She held her breath, squeezed her eyes shut, forced her body to remain motionless. This was too good, too delicious, to break the spell. Her body was on fire simply from imagining his next move.

The mattress shifted. She opened one eye a slit to find him kneeling between her legs. Closing the eye quickly—before he noticed the fair maiden was wide awake and more than ready for action—she waited, clenched and quivering.

Want More Maureen?


Visit her on the web here: http://booksbymaureen.com/

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