Urban Fantasy Author
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Dream Student What would you do if you could see other people’s dreams? If you could watch their hidden fantasies and uncover their deepest, darkest secrets…without them ever knowing? Sara Barnes is about to find out. She thought that all she had to worry about was final exams, Christmas shopping and deciding whether she likes the cute freshman in the next dorm who’s got a crush on her. But when she starts seeing dreams that aren’t hers, she learns more than she ever wanted to know about her friends, her classmates…and a strange, terrifying man whose dreams could get Sara killed. “Dream Student” is the thrilling first installment of the Dreams series. *** Dream Doctor “I didn’t expect to be woken up by someone I don’t know dreaming about killing somebody. I thought I was done with that once and for all…” But Sara’s not done with it. As if adjusting to life as a newlywed and starting medical school weren’t difficult enough, she’s started seeing the dreams of everyone around her, again. Before everything is said and done, those dreams might destroy Sara’s hopes of becoming a doctor, wreck her marriage and even end her life… “Dream Doctor” is the thrilling second novel in the Dreams series. *** Dream Child "I would give anything to take this away from her. I would gladly go back to having the nightmares myself – the very worst ones, the ones that had me waking up screaming in a pool of my own vomit – rather than see Lizzie go through this..." As a resident at Children's Hospital, Sara can handle ninety hour workweeks, fighting to save her young patients from deadly childhood diseases. But she's about to be faced with a challenge that all her training and experience haven't prepared her for: her four-year-old daughter has inherited her ability to see other people's dreams... "Dream Child" is the suspenseful third novel in the "Dreams" series. *** Dream Family "Why is this so hard for me? Why am I having so much trouble? Why do I feel so helpless, so hopeless? What the hell is wrong with me?" After tangling with murders and mobsters, not to mention medical school and three years of residency, Sara thought she could handle anything. And then the police show up without warning at her new office and arrest her for a crime she can't possibly have committed. Sara's confidence, and her grip on reality, is shattered during one terrifying night in jail. Now, the very dreams that have endangered her life and driven her to the edge of madness may be the only thing that can help Sara find herself again... "Dream Family" is the powerful fourth novel in the "Dreams" series. J.J. (James) DiBenedetto was born in Yonkers, New York. He attended Case Western Reserve University, where as his classmates can attest, he was a complete nerd. Very little has changed since then. He currently lives in Arlington, Virginia with his beautiful wife and their cat (who has thoroughly trained them both). When he's not writing, James works in the direct marketing field, enjoys the opera, photography and the New York Giants, among other interests. The "Dreams" series is James' first published work. He can be reached at his website or FB Sites.
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Cee Cee woke to the inviting scent of thick chicory coffee. It was an effort to drag her eyes open, even more so to recognize where she was. Unrelieved white walls lifting to a twelve foot ceiling. Cotton sheets as smooth as satin. No roar of road traffic. The sweet tang of mock orange instead of Iberia hot sauce from the crab shack down the street.
“Good morning.” And a sound like no other: the low seismic rumble of Max Savoie’s voice. He leaned with his back against the jamb of the French doors that led out onto the balcony. He was dressed in the easy drape of a black suit, his white shirt open at the neck. Short black hair was still damp from the shower and the hard angles of his face smoothly shaven. With pure morning light reflecting off the green of his eyes, he looked like hot sex in shiny shoes. She was suddenly wide awake. “Why are you already dressed?” “I’ve got an early meeting in the city and I didn’t want to disturb you.” Disturb wasn’t exactly the verb that came to mind. “When did you get in?” “Late. I didn’t know you were going to be here. I’m sorry.” He didn’t sound it. He sound . . . wary. Her confidence jerked to a shuddering halt. “I should have called first. I shouldn’t have assumed I’d be welcome.” “You can come here any time. I’ve told you that.” So why didn’t she feel like it was true this morning? She sat up, keeping the sheet trapped under her armpits. She needn’t have bothered. There was no spark of anything in his steady stare. “I wanted to see you,” she began carefully. “I wanted to talk to you about the words we had in your office.” “What words were those?” He was angry. Or was it something else? Sometimes he was so hard to read. Hell, most of the time she felt like she was stuck with only the foreign language directions that accompanied their relationship. And there weren’t even any pictures to help. “I know you didn’t kill that girl. I only asked about you being gone because I wanted to be able to eliminate you completely as a possible suspect. I was just doing my job. It wasn’t personal. I’m sorry if it felt that way.” He didn’t blink. Finally, some of the stiffness eased from his expression. “I apologize for feeling offended.” She smiled. Crisis averted. “Besides, Dovion will be able to confirm that the bite marks on the girl weren’t the same as Gautreaux and Surette.” Max didn’t move. “Was this before or after you decided to have faith in me? Nothing like belief when it’s backed by fact first.” “Why are you so angry with me?” That surprised him. “I’m not angry. I never get angry.” She arched a brow. “Really? Then that must have been someone else threatening to eat that redheaded guy’s face if he didn’t take his hands off me.” “That wasn’t anger.” “What was it? Small talk?” The stern set of his lips twitched. “If you’re not angry, come over here.” Caution crept up into his gaze. “Come here. Coward.” That brought a flash into his stare. He came away from the doorframe and strode to the bed with his strangely graceful yet powerful stride. He stopped just out of reach. “Closer.” He took another step and she stood, catching the lapels of his jacket as the sheet dropped away. She touched her mouth to his, then leaned back. His eyes were closed. He never closed his eyes when they kissed. “Max, what’s wrong? What is it? Please tell me.” He rested his head on her shoulder, the breath sighing from him wearily. “It’s nothing. I’m sorry I’m being . . . how do you put it? Pissy? I’m just tired and overwhelmed. I’m not used to having to be everything to everyone with all of them pulling in a different direction.” “What can I do?” “Stop pulling.” A seemingly simple request. She touched the back of his head, letting her fingers trickle through his silky hair. She knew enough from listening to Babineau that in a relationship, each partner was supposed to be the other’s port in emotional storms. She was at a loss there. Hers wasn’t a quiet, omforting nature. She preferred to wade right in swinging. Where had Max learned to be so damned perfect at it? All she had to do was hint an approaching meltdown and he had her wrapped up tight in a cocoon of care. She wanted to do that for him, to be there for him, but she had no nurturing role models to turn to for advice. Babineau’s dewy-eyed wife? No thank you. She’d rather muddle through on her own. “I’m sorry,” she told him with a cut-to-the-chase candor that wasn’t particularly sensitive, but at least it was honest. “I get so caught up in my job that I sometimes forget that you’re in the middle.” His hands came up, one sliding between her shoulders blades, one following the curve of her spine down to the small of her back, both making restless, soothing circles. Her body went liquid. Oh, yes. He was damned near perfect. “It’s okay.” “If I’m pushing and pulling it’s because this case is so personal,” she confessed softly. “Everything about it takes me back, makes me feel helpless and scared and angry. I want to nail the man who did this to that poor girl, who made her face all the awful things I had to. Until I have him, I can’t concentrate on anything else, I don’t have time for anything else, I’m no good for anything else. I know that’s not fair, but I’ll make it up to you. I will.” Her tone had grown hard and fierce, vibrating with the passion that made her job more than just that. She hadn’t meant it to take over. She’d wanted to concentrate on him, and here she was shoving him out of the away. It was a vendetta she had against those who harmed the innocent. She and Mary Kate Malone had gone after their demons in different ways. She became a cop. Mary Kate became Sister Catherine. And both used Max as a tool toward that personal and spiritual vengeance. And what a fierce avenging tool he was. Max stepped away from the temptation of Charlotte Caissie. He held her gaze with a flat stare, giving her what she wanted. “I went to the club last night, after I left your apartment. I went to see to my promise.” He told her the gist of his conversation with Jacques LaRoche. Perhaps unintentionally confining the information to the dock clan and not including the spooky unknowns of the North. Nor did he share the disturbing contacts he’d had from that unidentified source. He wasn’t sure he wanted her exploring, for the protection of all involved. Her expression grew thoughtful, her attention focused beyond the room where she stood naked at the side of his bed. She might as well have been wearing a uniform. “Do you believe him? Did you get the sense he was trying to cover up for someone?” Max shrugged. “Yes and no. I don’t think he was lying to me, but I’ve no reason to think he’d be entirely truthful if it wasn’t to his advantage.” He quickly skimmed her sleek nudity. “You should get dressed, Detective, since you’re already on the clock.” She eyed her rumpled clothes. “Can I borrow a shirt?” Then she added a bit shyly, “Maybe I should start leaving a few things here.” “If you like,” he murmured with an astonishing lack of enthusiasm after he’d campaigned so ardently for her to claim a small portion of his closet. “I have to go.” “I can give you a lift in if you can wait for me to grab a shower.” “Thanks, but I’m in a hurry.” Piqued by his gruff rejection, she jerked a tee shirt out of his dresser, grumbling, “I don’t remember Jimmy Legere running into the city every day.” “Jimmy had people there that he trusted. I don’t. I have to be on top of things or they’ll get pulled out from under me. I’ll let you know if I find out anything else that might interest you.” She slipped the shirt over her head. For a moment, he couldn’t take his eyes off her. “Good-bye, Detective.” His words were soft and tight-throated. As he started to turn away, she said, “Max? When will I see you?” “I don’t know. It seems like we’re both too busy to find time for each other.” Something anxious swelled within her heart and filled her uplifted stare. “Find time.” He smiled faintly. “I’ll try if you will.” She waited until she heard the front door close before going out onto the balcony, leaning there on the railing. He emerged from the shadow of the house to stride across the lawn toward the carriage house where Legere’s marvelous collection of cars was kept. Cars Max didn’t know how to drive. One of which he’d given to her as a gift. She loved watching him. He moved differently when he thought he was alone. Quicker. So quick, sometimes he seemed to blur. The irony of him going off to work at LE International troubled her. Jimmy Legere’s teasing, relentlessly lovelorn leg breaker now a somber executive in his designer suit and Italian leather. Something gave way in her chest, like a lynchpin holding the gate to her emotions closed. Gripping the rail, she leaned out and said softly, “I love you, Savoie.” He stopped. For a moment he just stood there in the damp grass, the slant of early sunrise gleaming off his dark head. Then he turned, gaze lifting. Nothing changed in his expression as he touched his fingertips to his mouth and waved that kiss her way. His image shimmered, forcing her to blink rapidly, then to act with haste. “Wait,” she called. She darted back into his room, returning in seconds. “You forgot your shoes.” He caught the red high-tops she tossed down, holding them to his chest in bemusement. “You’re mine, Max. I’m not going to let them have all of you.” He levered out of the shiny shoes that had become a frightening symbol of the changes demanded from him. Then he slipped into the Converses—the foot wear of her savior of twelve years ago, of the man who courted her with unflagging determination and simmering innuendo, of the lover who’d stolen her affections and filled her dreams with a sense of safety. He laced them quickly then straightened. Her desire for him stirred and began to simmer. “You are so hot.” He smiled. “Get some clothes on before I’m tempted to come back inside.” Boldly, she gripped the hem of the T-shirt and pulled it up to her chin. He blinked, then his sober expression split with a wide wicked grin. “See you soon,” she called down to him, restoring her modesty and his ability to breathe. “Yes, you will.” He strode away, leaving the shiny shoes in the grass without a second thought. She could hear his low chuckle, and was able to let him go. Max would have never guessed her destination. If he’d suspected, he would have put a stop to it. It was late afternoon, happy hour time in most Big Easy establishments. Cheveux du Chien was no exception; alternative species were apparently equally eager to shake off the dust of labor after shift change with a cold one. She’d parked her car at a discreet distance to watch the comings and goings, while sipping coffee and taking pictures. It still amazed her. Here was a totally unknown race living, working, and breeding right in the heart of the city, under the very noses of its citizens and law enforcement officials. A race with its own culture, its own community, its own rules. And its own predator. She was all about “live and let live,” but one of them had ended that right for one of hers, and that could not be ignored. She had a plan in mind, not a great one, but it was a start. She’d show the pictures to Sandra Cummings’s friends and see if any of them were familiar. Maybe it was as simple as an imagined slight on the sidewalk, a discouraged advance at the bar that had triggered the attack. She glanced down to fit her empty cup into its holder and turned back with viewfinder to her eye. But instead of focusing on a group of laborers on the opposite sidewalk, her screen filled with a row of sharp canine teeth. She lunged backwards, trying to scramble over the gearshift column as hands reached through the open window to grip Max’s jacket and drag her toward the door. Three of them stood next to her car, and none of them looked like they were there to ask her to join them for a drink. With her elbows pinned between the seat and the wheel, and her holster at the small of her back, there was no room to grab for her gun. She went for the automatic window. Before it had whirred half way up, one of them smashed it off the track. Writhing and cursing, she was pulled against the window frame with enough force to split the skin on her forehead. The feel of warm blood beginning to ooze sparked her temper and determination. She popped the door handle and threw herself against it, knocking the one who’s had a hold of her off balance. She came out low, in a roll, slipping between them to come up to her feet, her pistol quickly wedged up beneath one’s chin. “I’m a detective with the NOPD. Back off,” she snarled at the other two. When they didn’t heed the warning, she nudged the barrel more meaningfully. “Whatdaya say, sport? Wanna take one for the team, or do you tell them to stand down?” The one she held onto dropped and feinted to the side. A jarring blow to her forearms from another numbed her fingers and her pistol clattered to the ground. Blood dripping into her eyes, she’d assumed an aggressive stance, ready to take on the three of them when her elbows were suddenly clamped from behind. “Here now, what’s this? Easy, Detective Pretty. Nobody’s gonna hurt you.” She recognized the drawling tones of Jacques LaRoche’s second in command, the red-headed Philo ibideaux. Contrarily she kicked out at the one closest to her, the toe of her boot in his kneecap sending him stumbling back with a howl. Tibideaux gave her an eyeball-rattling shake. “Stop it now.” To the others, he said brusquely, “What’s going on?” Her camera was recovered from the car, a damning bit of evidence quickly crushed etween heel and pavement. Cee Cee demanded, “I want to see LaRoche. Take me to him.” “Do you now? Does Savoie know you’re here?” She said nothing. “I thought not.” Tibideaux pushed her to one of the others then, bent to pick up her gun. “Hang onto her. Careful, she bites. And be careful you don’t go bruising her, or Savoie might just bite off your head.” With Tibideaux leading the way, they dragged her down the alleyway to the entrance of the Shifter club. Once inside, she realized her mistake. She had no advantage here. She was in an alien world where her badge meant nothing. The only way she was going to get out alive was on sheer bravado and Max Savoie’s name. LaRoche was tending bar for the first-shift crew, who still wore their work clothes and smelled like the docks. They were immediately aware of her, picking up her human scent then turning almost as one to stare in hostile challenge. The low lighting glinted off ruby flickers in their eyes. Only LaRoche offered a welcoming smile, feral showing of teeth. “Detective, what a surprise. If you’re looking for Savoie, he’s not here.” “She ain’t here to socialize,” Philo told him. With a lithe move, he vaulted the bar and leaned in close to whisper something to his boss. Though there was no change in his expression, Cee Cee could feel LaRoche tense. “Take over here for me, Tib, whilst I make some talk with the detective.” He handed Tibideaux the rag he was using to swab out glasses in exchange for the police-issue weapon and circled out from behind the bar. He was huge, easily six foot six or better and all of it bulky muscle. He took Cee Cee’s elbow, his dinner-plate sized hand gentle but firm. “Let’s you and me sit down a spell, Detective. You want something from the bar? On the house.” “No. Thank you.” “Suit yourself.” He steered her through the crowd, up into the top tier of tables that were empty this early in the day. From there they could oversee the room and not be overheard, since the sound system was pounding decibels down like a heavy rain. LaRoche held out a chair for her, then turned the one opposite around so he could straddle the seat and lean meaty forearms upon its back as he studied her. “Are you stupid?” he asked mildly. “You don’t have the look of stupid about you, Detective, but I could be wrong. Look down there. That’s no petting zoo, darlin’. With half a reason, they’ll turn you into a bar snack.” “Is that what one of them did to Sandra Cummings?” He said nothing for a long minute. When he finally spoke, his tone was rough with impatience. “How you think it is that you knew nothing of us? How you think we live here, right in the middle of all you Uprights like we was invisible? Because we work to stay that way, cher. You think you can clicketty- click your pictures and show them to the world? I don’t think so. What are we gonna do about you, Detective?” “Help me do my job so others won’t figure out what I know. Others who have no reason to keep quiet about it.” He frowned at that. “You think if I knew who did this careless, dangerous thing, it wouldn’t have been dealt with by now? And believe you me, Detective, our ways of dealing with them who threaten our secret are a lot more final than yours. That’d be true even if it was Savoie’s doing, now that he’s one of ours.” That set her back in surprise then had her bristling up defensively. “It wasn’t Max.” “I didn’t say it was, darlin’. I’m just saying that what he done in the past, him and that other fella, brought a lot of attention to things we don’t want considered. You done a right fine job of tidying up after Ben Spratt, hiding what he was behind a bunch of smoke and mirrors. We appreciated that, but know you done it for Max, not us. But if we go down, he goes down. There’s no way to separate him from us any more.” “I need to find this killer. If I don’t, someone else will. And that someone else won’t be playing kissy face with Savoie or give a damn about any of you.” LaRoche chuckled at her gruff tone and gritty logic. “Does he know you’re here?” “I don’t run my investigation through him.” A bigger laugh. “You’re not stupid, cher, you’re dangerous. And I like that about you.” Then he sobered. “If one of our kind is killing yours, it’s our problem as much as yours, Detective. If we find out before you do, we’ll take care of it our way. Now go back to your world and forget about ours, lest you become the next statistic.” THE POWER OF OBSERVATION – A WRITER’S TOOL or (Remember to watch for turkeys!) Once again it took a comment from my husband to start me thinking about a topic for this guest blog. He called me to the kitchen window this morning. “What do you see out there?” I looked out at the same scene I see every day – the north rough-plowed field, the line fence and the neighboring farm. “Same old stuff.” Since I knew there’d been lots of tracks behind our barn lately, I expected maybe a deer or two. Nope. No deer. I looked up, scanning the tree tops for the hawk that occasionally visits. No hawk. There were cardinals and doves at the feeder. “I don’t see anything out there but the birds.” “Look close to the fence, down low.” He pointed. I looked. Sure enough, moving along the fence, heads down and barely noticeable, three, good-sized turkeys quietly pecked their way across the field. We’ve never had wild turkeys in the fields, so their appearance was unusual and unexpected. If I’d glanced out the window prior to my hubby’s suggestion, I would’ve missed the surprise of watching those turkeys. Shame on me for forgetting what I’d learned during the ten-week Citizen Police Academy course I took a few years prior. The excellent course offered by our local Police Department was a great learning experience for anyone, especially a writer. I was the oldest person in the class, but hey, I was there to learn, not to compare ages. Not only did we go through some of the same training as the actual recruits, we learned how to “see” more accurately what was happening around us, in the blink of an eye. The safety of all police officers depends on their power of observation, quick responses and the ability to make wise decisions in the event of a crisis. If you saw a robbery taking place, would you be an accurate witness? Do you remember anything unusual about the scene? The robber? Did you check your watch to record the time? Notice if there were any accomplices? Any strange cars in the parking lot? Could you identify the accused in a line-up and feel positive you were correct? In the blink of an eye, so many things can take place around you. It takes a skilled observer to pick out those small, but significant things. It takes practice in your everyday life to become proficient. Look around each time you go out. What do you see in the small perimeter around you? In the larger area beyond that? Was it there before today or is it new? Observe people, too. Train your mind to remember facial features, clothing, unusual characteristics. Are you close enough to hear the person speak? Voice is important, too. High pitched, gruff, a lisp - all these are good identifying factors. Everything we learned could be used to polish our writing skills. In doing detailed research, writers who have learned to use their power of observation wisely will have a much richer story to keep their readers turning the pages. Adding bits of information about the story’s locale, the weather and its effect on the characters and their moods, sights and sounds and smells in the scene will heighten the reader’s interest and you’ll leave them eager to read your next book. I’ll be working on increasing my power of observation from now on. You never can tell what you might miss in the blink of an eye. Wild turkeys might show up in my next book. At least, I’ll know what they look like. Loralee Lillibridge-Author Published romance author, Loralee Lillibridge, is a long-time fan of romance novels and a strong believer in the power of love. Loralee grew up in Texas loving cowboys and rodeos, but relocated in Michigan after her marriage to a handsome Yankee who stole her heart. She still favors country love songs, and seeing a field of Texas bluebonnets can make her cry, but she admits the West Michigan lakeshore has a beauty all its own. Even as a child, Loralee’s love of books, combined with a vivid imagination, fueled a desire to create her own stories with characters readers could care about. Her first attempt was a neighborhood play about a pirate who rescued a princess. (Original, yes?) Needless to say, the audience only consisted of her parents and the boy next door who reluctantly played the role of the pirate. Now she enjoys writing emotionally fulfilling stories centered on the relationship of a man and a woman and their often rocky road to love. Heart-warming stories of ordinary people and extra-ordinary love. She is also a founding member and past-president of the Mid-Michigan Chapter of RWA, a member of Published Authors Special Interest Chapter of RWA (PASIC) and Sisters in Crime. A native Texan, she and her husband make their home in West Michigan near their children and grandchildren. This Texas flower credits her chapter and her wonderful critique partners for their unlimited support and encouragement on her roller-coaster ride to becoming a published romance author. When not writing, Loralee enjoys reading, spending time with family and friends, and traveling. Visit Loralee at her Website or her Blog The strength of Loralee's plot is her down-home wisdom and understanding of human nature. Her characters are real people, with real problems, who struggle with decision making and the consequences of making bad choices. Hill Country Man is about a newly divorced single mom with a rebellious teenage daughter who every mom can relate to. It's about a sexy, once-burned hunk of a man who accepts people, faults and all, and knows the value of true friendship and earned trust. Mostly, in a very believable and heartwarming way, Hill Country Man is about second chances, the power of true love, and the life-changing redemption of true forgiveness. Readers will root for Maggie's triumph and sigh whenever she feels distrust for her Hill Country Man. This is a five-star must read if you want a quick, feel-good experience that will leave your real life and worries far behind. You will wish these charcters lived next door to you so that you could invite them over for coffee and advice. Stop by tomorrow for a visit from the author herself! Leave a comment on Loralee's post tomorrow for a chance to win a copy of Hill Country Man. I didn’t start writing seriously until I retired and found myself with the time to spend a whole day in front of the computer. The ideas had been in my head for many years, but were undeveloped and unexplored. One day, several months after my teaching/counseling career ended, I sat down and started. Some days, the ideas, dialog, and characters flow from my brain and I can barely type fast enough. Other days, I have to walk away, occupy my mind with something else, and hash through what might happen, what might be said. But both days are valuable. While waiting for a publisher to accept my first book, I discovered that the rejections were okay. While I sincerely want young people to read and enjoy my books, I realized that the writing was more for me. It’s a joy to develop the characters and situations, and I can’t foresee a time when I’ll be ready for it to end. AUTHOR BIO Ellen Fritz is a rered teacher and high school counselor. Over the years of teaching reading and English to students in grades seven through twelve before becoming a counselor, she had the great opportunity to discuss numerous favorite books with students and also took their rommendations for her own reading. She finally found herself with the time to give life to the stories that have always been patiently waiting in her head for an audince. Ellen wrote Mira to appeal to those middle grade/teen readers that she found so inspiring through her career as an educator. MIRA Two warring alien races have lived among us for thousands of years. One plots to conquer the earth, one strives to live among us in peace. An ordinary college student, Lexi has no idea that her genetic legacy is about to plunge her into a world she never knew existed. Coping with her altered life, protecting innocent victims, and falling in love while trying to finish college and keep the ordinary humans around her unaware of what is really going on, Lexi finds herself balancing situations she could never have imagined. Lexi enters a life that is wondrous, delightful, dangerous and terrifying, as she becomes the catalyst for events that could change the balance of power between the alien races. Appropriate and enjoyable for all ages, Mira plunges the reader into Lexi’s complicated, extraordinary world and introduces likeable characters facing complex situations. It is a world that is at times fun, at times perilous, but never dull when the fate of two alien races and the humans around them is hanging in the balance. Look for it this summer from Tell-Tale Publishing Group. Author Notes Ellen Fritz is a retired teacher and high school counselor. Over the years of teaching reading and English to students in grades seven through twelve before becoming a counselor, she had the great opportunity to discuss numerous favorite books with students and also took their recommendations for her own reading. She finally found herself with the time to give life to the stories that have always been patiently waiting in her head for an audience. Ellen wrote Mira to appeal to those middle grade/teen readers that she found so inspiring through her career as an educator. I didn’t start writing seriously until I retired and found myself with the time to spend a whole day in front of the computer. The ideas had been in my head for many years, but were undeveloped and unexplored. One day, several months after my teaching/counseling career ended, I sat down and started. Some days, the ideas, dialog, and characters flow from my brain and I can barely type fast enough. Other days, I have to walk away, occupy my mind with something else, and hash through what might happen, what might be said. But both days are valuable. While waiting for a publisher to accept my first book, I discovered that the rejections were okay. While I sincerely want young people to read and enjoy my books, I realized that the writing was more for me. It’s a joy to develop the characters and situations, and I can’t foresee a time when I’ll be ready for it to end. I’ve always been a storyteller. As a young child I’d hasten sleep by creating little stories to tell myself based on whatever was my current favorite TV show. Long before the age of I-phones and video games, my friends and I would run screaming through the neighborhood yards dawn to dusk acting out adventures starring our favorite TV and movie heroes and heroines.
Later, as a young adult with kids of my own, I began building, painting and competing with military or fanciful miniatures in many of the Atlantic Coast model shows. I noticed the figures that won gold medals or sold were always the ones that somehow told a story. Instead of just standing at attention or marching, my soldier might be depicted reading a letter from home or protecting a lady friend. I worked for years as a designer illustrator. Many of the class rings you see on the fingers of high school, college and military academy graduates began as my design. It was toward the end of this career that I began to write. Since then, I’ve had a dozen short stories and e-novels published, many with an exotic or New England background, a dash of adventure, a nasty villain, and a hero or heroine who does eventually win the girl. My current novel is no exception. Set in late nineteenth century New England, Like Clockwork is a Steampunk Romance centering around the stormy relationship of Irish heiress, Kathleen McBride, and disgraced Boston cop turned reluctant seaman, turned airship crafter, Scott Wildethorne. Enhanced with Yankee history, steampunk gadgetry and oddities, Like Clockwork reveals a tightly wound tale taunt with human frailty and soul-harrowing peril. Its a tale too of paranormal vengence and raw passion that brings two unlikely lost souls-who would have felt right at home in Wuthering Heights-together for all eternity. Look for it this summer from Tell-Tale Publishing Group. INGREDIENTS 1 box Betty Crocker® SuperMoist® carrot cake mix Water, vegetable oil and eggs called for on cake mix box 3 rolls Betty Crocker® Fruit Roll-Ups® punch berry chewy fruit snack (from 5-oz box) 3 green-colored sour candies, separated into strips 1 container Betty Crocker® Rich & Creamy cream cheese frosting 1 cup chocolate cookie crumbs DIRECTIONS Heat oven to 350°F. Place paper baking cups in each of 24 regular-size muffin cups. Bake and cool cupcakes as directed on package for 24 cupcakes. Meanwhile, cut fruit snack into triangles. Roll up fruit snack to make a carrot shape. Repeat with remaining fruit snacks to make about 30 carrots. Cut green sour candies in half crosswise; cut each half into quarters lengthwise to make thin strips of green candy. Press thin green strips into large end of carrot to make greens on carrot. Repeat with remaining candy. Spread frosting over cupcakes. Sprinkle with cookie crumbs. Randomly place carrot shapes on tops of cupcakes or press them into cupcakes to make them look like they are planted. Nutrition Information 1 Cupcake Exchanges:1/2 Starch; 0 Fruit; 1 1/2 Other Carbohydrate; 0 Skim Milk; 0 Low-Fat Milk; 0 Milk; 0 Vegetable; 0 Very Lean Meat; 0 Lean Meat; 0 High-Fat Meat; 2 Fat; Carbohydrate Choices:2*Percent Daily Values are based on a 2,000 calorie diet One of the things I get asked about the most is how I come up with a good story idea. The key is understanding the simple basics about story. Every story, no matter what genre and no matter what types of characters populate the story, is about people, their problems and how they overcome them…or why they don't. Without a problem, without conflict, there is no story. The problem provides the character motivation and actions. The problem is whatever stands in the way of what the character wants. Often it is an antagonist that stands in their way because they want the same thing. This causes conflict, the "what happens" or the "events" of a story. The problem must be large enough, the what's in the way of them getting what they want or need, to sustain an entire story. The longer the story, the bigger the problem. For a novel length story, you add more characters, each with their own baggage and problems, needs and wants, affiliations and enemies. The longer the novel, the more complicated the plots twists, the more devious the character actions and interactions. So where do you begin? Choose a character. Decide what they want or need and what they're willing to do to get it. Then, put obstacles in their way. A romance author pits the hero and heroine against each other. Since all romance must end happily ever after, the writer makes the couple come together in order to overcome a more formidable and evil antagonist. Other genres may put good guys and bad guys against each other. But in a quick outline format, you can get the bones of the story together rather painlessly. Once I get a bare bones skeletal structure in place, often by just free-writing about an imaginary or envisioned character, I like to begin fleshing my story out by brainstorming with my critique buddies. These oral conversations can move from what a character is like to how they perform under pressure. It often includes ideas on how to fix gaps in the story, such as how a character manages to figure something out or how they overcome a particular problem the author has just invented for them. But wherever our mind melds lead, we always remember that no character is all bad, and no character is all good. This adds a lot of delightful fuel for subplots and more complicated plot twists. Perhaps unique to our gang of gals, is how we solve a writer's block about what a character should or would do in a particular situation. Often I do a "tarot reading" for the character and discuss how the cards reveal obstacles, unlikely help in the way of a new character, or the psychological baggage the character must overcome. Interesting characters must be changed somehow by the end of the book. Even if they don't get what they want, they may discover that it's not what they truly needed, or wanted, all along. Sounds like real people, doesn't it? Exactly! Good stories are those that real people can relate to, so the characters must be "real" too. Happy brainstorming! I hope I have helped writers think about creating solid and interesting plots, and helped readers understand why they love particular characters. Thanks for stopping by and reading this. Don't forget to leave a comment to get a chance to win a copy of Illuminati: the Book of Life, or one of Nancy Gideon's PR and Social Media For Writers guides. PR & Social Media For Writers TrailerAnxiously awaited with both excitement and nervous tension, the book has been launched. It appears in all its shiny new cover glory on every known ebook site. The pages are filled with brief descriptions, links to author sites and social media networks. Now comes the nail-biting, the anxious breath-holding until the first reviews appear. As a sane and logical person, you realize that each reader is an individual and as such they are all entitled to their own opinions. Odds are some won't be as favorable as others. As an author, some of the most difficult work is social networking and turning the other cheek. The high road is the ONLY road an author should take. Case in point? A certain young lady, who probably goes by a new name if she is planning to sell anything in print again, blasted a very nice, and very correct reviewer who had watered down his criticism and even found nice things to say about the lady's work. She used the "f" word more times than I can recall, and when a ton of blog followers wrote back in defense of the reviewer, she fought with them as well. Are you recalling this #gone viral event? By the time someone advised her to just shut up and she took their advice, several publishers had passed her name around as a banned author. That was an extreme incident, but the author did far more damage than the reviewer ever would have. Negative comments should either be ignored, or if the occasion warrants a polite thank you for taking the time to read my work and offer your suggestions type comment--which doesn't require you to agree or disagree with the reviewer. They will then be more likely to give your next book a chance, and perhaps even a more favorable review. A negative reader is still a reader, and that is what all authors are after. And, as this is America, every individual has the right to voice their opinion. This is the pep talk all authors should give themselves before their launch date. They should also surround themselves with supportive friends and family who think anything they write is golden--just in case! Here's to a five-star review for one and all! |
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The Keeper's Secret: Tell-Tale Publishing's Annual Horror Anthology
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