I wanna change my name!

One of the first things writers usually try to figure out is if they want to write under a pen name. I thought about this too right in the beginning. I decided against it when I got my first book contract and pride swelled my head a bit. Write under a pen name? Hell no! I want the world to know that book came from me. That book was released... then another... then the third. Finally I got the contract for my "different" book.



I sat in Starbucks having coffee with my author friends. Do I publish this book under a pen name, I wondered again. We went over the pros and cons of it. In the end, I decided to publish the "different" book under my own name. As I reread this book through edits, some of the scenes made me blush. You see, the book is a lot naughtier than I usually write and that is saying a lot because I normally write some pretty steamy stuff! Even though parts of the book made me blush, I still am not embarrassed for writing the content inside those pages. No way! I'm proud of the book.



But I wish I had put it under a pen name. You see, authors have a regular fan base, that group of people who insist on buying every single book from the author as soon as the book releases. I think that the group of people are drawn to us because of the way we write. My group of people knows what to expect when they buy one of my books. Then here comes Cross the Line. Something totally new and ten times as sexual. It threw my readers off I'm sure. If I could do it over I would have a different name on the cover so that that style of writing could get its own fan base. Know what I mean?

I'm including a scene from Cross the Line. Its the tamest one I could find and I hope you enjoy it. If you're ready for a really smokin' hot read, you can pick it up at www.lyricalpress.com/wendy_ely

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I dropped the last box on the brown tiles and worried whether I’d packed anything breakable inside. With my luck, I had. Relieved to be done moving, I was already tired of the new city I called home even though I’d only been in it for a few hours. If I didn’t find something appealing about the place soon, I would be looking into moving again like when I’d wanted to get out of Billings, Montana. Nothing had been wrong with the old place, I get bored easy and like to move around is all.


My new best friend roared to life, blowing cool air from the vents. Ignoring the open front door, I sat down on the box I’d dropped. I did my best to rub the knots out of my lower back, but with achy arms, I wasn’t doing so well. Sweat trickled down my forehead, requiring me to stop my half-attempt at a massage, grab a washcloth from a nearby bag and mop at the sweat. How did people live like this? Why I’d decided to accept the job offer in Phoenix was beyond me. But moving in the middle of the Phoenix summer? Even worse. Now I could understand why Arizona had earned the nickname “the devil’s playground.”


Playground? Not sure that would be the right word choice because I was convinced I’d arrived in hell itself.


A knock on the door made me jump up from the box, making every strain in my muscles and joints become more prominent. The pain quickly faded as a luscious vision in denim leaned against my doorframe, looking sexy as sin.


A shot of heat spread through my body. I had no idea why he instantly turned me on. I didn’t find goatees attractive, wasn’t into the whole tattoo bit, or the almost too tight t-shirt style, but it all looked perfect on this man. This man definitely had the talent to pull off the bad boy look that made women drop to their knees. Me included.


I quickly ran my fingers through my hair. It had once been in a complete ponytail, but was only partially bound by a hairband at this point. I looked like a mess and knew it. What a great way to start out meeting someone so handsome. But that’s my luck and I had accepted it long ago. To make the best of the situation, I wiped my sweaty palm down my jean shorts before holding it out to him. “Hi. My name’s Leslie Teague.”


“Chris Matthews.” He barely touched my hand before dropping it, as if scorched. He cocked his head toward the front of my apartment. “Need help with that truck out front?”


“I would’ve taken you up on your offer a little earlier, but I’m done now.” The lie floated from my lips as if the act came as a second nature to me. I never lied to people and never, ever asked anyone for help. So why did I find myself holding my hands out toward the room full of boxes as if presenting a prize? “Unless you want to assist in moving the mattress to my bedroom?” A few suggestions as to what we could do on that mattress came to mind, but I did my best to keep my mouth shut.



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Wendy Ely