Zinnia Hope, author of multi-genres and erotic romances; also writing as J. Emberglass

A Freya's Bower Author. Photobucket - Video and Image Hosting Do you dare read my novels? Are your panties wet yet? If not, no worries because they soon will be.

Monday, July 31

Doing the backwoods happy dance!!!
My official website is online!
Please stop by, sign my guestbook and maybe even bookmark it, LOL!


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Friday, July 28

What has Z been doing the past few days? Well, revising CONSPIRACY of ANGELS when time permits, but I've been putting up zucchini jelly and pickling eggs too. The picture is a jar of four dozen spicy pickled eggs. Spicy as in hot pepper and cinnamon, etc. Unique, and very, very tasty!

Luckily, no gardening today. We're getting a bit of rain.

More craziness when I have time to type it all out.


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Friday, July 21

It won't be long now before the official Zinnia Hope website will be released for public viewing. It's super cool, and created by Lazy Daizy Designs. I have a few more things to put together for the webdesigner and once they're online, it'll be ready to go!

I'm afraid your typically zany Z is frazzled this morning. The heat has sucked (hey, don't go there!) all the energy out of me. Rabbits devasted our bean garden, so we had to re-plant. The rabbits returned and started another smorgasbord so we had to put up a fence around a 50'x12' plot. What greenbean plants (We plant bush beans; I hate runners and strings!) the killer bunnies had left kept me busy the other morning. I picked a three-gallon kettle to the rim from only three six-foot rows!
They tasted good too! LOL! I especially like them with onions, bacon, and a dash of garlic powder.

You do realize I'm talking about the greenbeans and not the bunnies, right?

The revisions for Conspiracy of Angels' is coming along well, and M.E. Ellis, darn her Brit hide, talked me into writing a Bites for Freya's Bower based on a short story of mine that she read. So I sent the story to Faith and Marci to get their opinions and they liked it.

When I get the second story done for the Bites, I have no clue, but I have ideas tumbling around in my noggin.

I should kick your bum, M.E. LOLOL!

That said, lol. M.E. and Duke of Earle, watch for something special for you both within the "cover" of Conspiracy of Angels.

Remember, it's all about sex, baby!

And unique plots, unusual characters...


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Monday, July 17

The renegade chicken is back. He rallied the hens and the younger cocks. For the past couple of days, I've heard banging and the creaking of wood and ropes under strain. Friday night, I heard them talking in chickenese. Yep, I can translate chickenese.

"Cl'ere clinished! Clee clill clegret clicking us as clootballs!"

I sat up in bed. Light bounced across the drawn shades. Flinging back the covers, I sprang out of bed and released the blind. Approximately fifty chickens milled about in the backyard. There, in the center of the lawn where my flowerbed full of sweet william, gladiolas, and cosmos USED to be, sat a miniature catapult.

What the hell???

"I watched the hens turn their feathered butts to the catapult's ammo bucket. All the young cocks lined up and did the same action too before waddling to the end of the line to wait behind the hens again.

I squinted, but the light from their mini torches caused too many leaping shadows and distorted my view.

"Cleady!" squawked the renegade rooster. "Claim! Clire!"

The catapult released with a hollow thonk and something white splattered the side of the house. White and gray clumps slid down the window glass.

Fury ripped through me. That lousy Sunday-Roast-To-Be!

Racing downstairs in my tee shirt and panties, I reached the backdoor and threw it open. The chickens clucked their startlement and most of them ran for the coup. I stared at the renegade cock; he stared back.

"Clun, cloo, clree!" he squawked louder. "Clire!"

I ducked and chicken shit splattered my lovely glass patio door.

"You feathery peckerheads!" I screeched. "Go ahead, have your fun! I'm done with this...this chicken shit!"

I stomped back inside thinking about which chicken soup recipe I liked best and even mulled over using that difficult, but scrumptious dumpling recipe that my grandma had given to me when I had setup my own household.

The following day, I rounded up the chickens and ushered them into a fenced and wired POW camp out by the barn. The renegade chicken is under poultry arrest. The USDA is investigating him. The hens and young cocks told me that they're sorry and that the Hitler Rooster won't be released for a couple of years.

Hmm...wonder if I got my point across?


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Tuesday, July 11

Yanno, I think Freya's Bower is going to shock the ePublishing business. One day, I'm going to sit back and grin from ear to ear that I'm one of the authors who started out with Freya's Bower.

I joke about the chickens, lol, and I'm warped and zany. I'll talk about sex, joke about sex, and I write about it. I have relatives who think I'm horrible because I'm open about sex, and when someone asks me what I write, I say, "I write about sex, baby!" (My grandmother nearly fainted when she heard that. Oh well...) {shrugs} Frankly, I don't give a rat's ass what they think.

Where am I going with this?

I have a side of me, a side to my writing that is serious. Oh sure, I still use my goofy humor, but I write mainstream material that's edgy. I tackle stuff that folks don't like to talk about or admit that it goes on in the world, in their homes or in their small podunk towns.

I have a novel that I've approached various print publishers with and they loved it, loved my writing, my style, but were scared silly to publish it. I even had another ePublisher looking at this particular manuscript in hopes of getting my name out in the eBook world a little more. The publisher is almost as new as Freya's Bower, and the editor said, and I quote: "This is beautifully written! However, I can't accept this. It has sex in it! It deals with real life issues and people don't want to read this kind of material. It's too contraversial."

I scratched my head and muttered a few backwoods expletives (Used a few chickens as footballs.) and wondered what planet she lived on. Planet P and it ain't Pluto, honey!

So I approached Marci with it. She showed it to Faith. They accepted it because it IS edgy, contraversial, sexy, and full of things that make a person say holy shit!

Marci and Faith, thank you for taking a chance on this. You'll never know how much it means to me to have your support.

I'm so pleased. Actually, I am completely and totally stoked. This is a full length novel coming soon. An exact date isn't being released yet because I want to do one more revision and make sure it's perfect.

And when my book is released, I hope you'll be curious enough to read it.


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Thursday, July 6


They’re wily creatures.

They like to wait until you least expect it and ambush you while you’re down. I admit it. I used a few Rhode Island Reds to vent my frustrations a couple weeks ago. What can I say? Those damn birds are all over the place on this farm. Squawking. Scratching. Strutting their stuff like their eggs and drumsticks are THE eggs and drumsticks.

Writers are known for having bouts of the blues. We’re temperamental creatures. Chickens, on the other hand, are demonic fiends covered in feathers that like to flog and peck you.

Especially when they get in my way while I’m throwing a temper tantrum. They make great footballs.

“Get out of my way you grub-scratching pecker head!” I screamed as I exited the back door and tried to step off the porch.

Two hens and a rooster stared up at me with their black, beady eyes. I tried to step around them and got one of the hens tangled in my flip-flops.

Nearly falling, I shouted, “Okay, you feather covered butt holes. You asked for it!” I counted to three, drew back my foot and yelled, “PUNT!”


My flip-flop soared through the air behind the hen.

Actually, if truth be told, that first hen looked sort of cool flying through the air. She landed on the tool shed roof and bounced, wings flapping, stray feathers floating on the breeze.


The second hen bounced into one of my flowerbeds where despite the fence around it, the hens still scratch for bugs and grubs. I thought it poetic justice.

The cock, however, did not.

He stared at me. I stared back.

He stretched his neck and walked his cocka-doodle walk, clucking as if saying, “Just try it with me, bitch.”

And...Zinnia thought better of it—for the moment.

I skirted the cock (and lemme tell ya, he’s a big one!) and strode across the yard to get the water hose. I kept the rooster in my peripheral vision, noting how he kept strutting across the base of the porch steps, as if taunting me. I, however, kept imagining him on a serving platter surrounded with baked taters and carrots.

Finished with watering my marigolds and petunias, I rolled up the hose and strode around the house to get the mail. Glancing over my shoulder I saw the feathery pecker head peeking around the corner of the house at me! Minutes later, I sat down on the back patio, watching the rooster with one eye, the other scanning the price of chicken (heh, heh) at Kroger’s.

Standing, I tucked the newspaper under one arm, walked to the porch and tried to sidestep the cock. He shot between my legs (snort! Sorry, couldn’t help myself!), tripping me. I stubbed my toe on a flagstone.

Now folks, stubbing one’s toe may not seem like much, but when one has a low tolerance for pain and pissed off to boot, it’s not a good or pretty combination. I jumped up and down, howling about my toe. I wanted to cry. No! Wait! I wanted to wring that cock’s neck! (Oh, stop it! Stop it! I can hear you! You’re not fooling me. Now wipe that coffee off the monitor!) Better yet, I wanted to pluck him bald, buff his bottom with butter and stuff the biggest box of Stove Top up his ass that I could find!

Now, insert the theme music to Saturday Night Fever into the scene and you can get a clear picture of my stubbed toe dance antics. In my fury, I grabbed that rooster (or roaster, depending you how you look at it.) and drop-kicked him into the maple tree out front.

That’s how he got his pecker stuck. (No, not THAT pecker. I told you that already!) It took him three days to get his pecker out of that knothole. (Would you stop it already? Sheesh, some people’s minds are always in the gutter...) The hens are on strike, and the cock’s on the run.


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Tuesday, July 4

Happy 4th everyone!

I'm at our little escape place up in Ohio by my folks' for the holiday. I'm finishing the final touches on HONEYSUCKLE AND WILD ROSES. I got behind--bad Zinnia!--due to the produce business we run and now I'm racing to catch up and get the final-final draft turned into Marci (ed-in-chief of Freya's Bower.com)

I still owe you a chicken story...


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Monday, July 3

I want to thank everyone who blogged about me or my eBooks and entered my contest.

The winner of the two Harlequin Super Romances is BeachGirl from Xanga.com!

Congratulations lady!

I'll mail out your books very soon.



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