IT CAN'T BE DEFINED

To write as partners, the collusion and collision of ideals and ideas must be for the most part non-violent. What does that mean? If the work is expected to be harmonious, the two authors at some level must philosophically agree, bickering for ego's sake can't succeed. To know us is to understand that we are not quite disagreeable with each other since we have agreed to agree, holding the work more important than our own point of views, which can often differ greatly, but... but... but... on the following topic we empathically concur.

One of the most paramount issues in the genre in which we write is that of defining love.

We have both agreed it is one of those exceedingly interesting things where it's a case of, you can't define it, though when you see it, you know it. It is as intangible as air but you need it to breathe life into your heart and soul. Even the most angry, most apathetic, most egregious need love in their world, no matter how much they might deny it. People respond to love, grow and blossom, yes, just like flowers as corny as that may sound. Angelica empathically insists that love is different for every person. Zi has taken a position that he is not certain that to be the truth but floating within the metaphysical properties of love are common denominators that can be defined.

Just today we have worked on the following paragraph which is a part of a short we have been developing. We'd like to share it with you.

"The last of her tea slipped past her lips, cooling the parch that settled in her throat, a parch that lingered in her heart as she searched the faces that passed, searched for him, and when the day drew on, she also watched the roll of each wave chasing the next unfolding in white puffs of foam then dissolving, and then again… it unfolding and dissolving… it unfolding and dissolving… it unfolding and dissolving…that sequence never ending… never changing… it was like love, she thought, a lover chasing a lover... minute after minute… hour after hour… day after day… year after year… they dissolving as if lost in one time, their time. She knew this was the way of love, with its wash and roll, soft and subtle, relenting toward an abstract objective though for each it was sharp and precise. But for those who have known love it was abstractly keen. This universally oxymoronic ideal of love first called Adam to Eve and every man since, never waning over all time."

One of the first manuscripts we did together resulted in the following piece of poetry. The reason we are sharing it is it shows the harmony necessary to at minimum respectfully deal with the concept of love. We both admit openly we don't have the answers, but we feel the questions.

ELEUTHEROMANIA vs. MONOPHOBIA
(Excessive zeal for freedom vs. fear of being one)

I’ve cried a million tears for you
And I don’t know why.
You don’t care; you don’t share one
Feeling for me.

I’ve cried a million tears for you.
I love you
And, I could never give a single
Reason why.

As my heart beats as one
Walking life’s paths, hand in none.
I wince, that hurt of silent loneliness
I cry help, I cry… for lovingness.

I’ve cried a million tears for you.
I felt a millions fears.
Chances are you have not thought of
My name, why?

Burning deep inside is a need to be two.
So passionately that time’s blindness would ensue.
Yet, my heart beats as one
Walking life’s paths, hand in none.

I’ve cried a million tears for you.
Wet my pillow case
Night after bitterly lonely night
For you, why?

I’ve cried a million tears for you.
And you have not let one dampen your cheek
I pity your world… your compassion.
I cry… millions... why?

Please free me… from my next tear.
Release your grip upon my heart.
I want the glory of smiles unbridled.
Please free me… from my next fear.

On a daily basis we honor and respect the give and take, pull and draw of that one universally fundamental emotion. Love. It would be the most grievous disservice to any connoisseur of our genre. This we have pledged to each other. Now, outside of the issues of love we have few boundaries. So, grandmothers might piece their navels and uncles might step in dog do-do and the occasional rat might find its way into one's cereal box, but we hope you can trust that our point of view about love is that we believe it is grand and glorious. And, yes, according to Angelica different for every individual


Angelica Hart and Zi
Killer Dolls ~ September 2009
Snake Dance ~ February 2010
Champagne Books
angelicahartandzi.com

In the Zone

Artists have a special place they go that I call the zone. Whether writing or creating visual art, they travel through particles of space, time and cranial thought matter to reach their destination then set up camp for a duration that will gain results. When the creative mood strikes, they hole themselves up in the cave, surround themselves with their favorite tools of the trade, and tune out the rest of the world.

Enter – the ZONE.

Time has no relevance when an artist is in the zone. I’m sure it’s different for other creative geniuses but for me, I’m in a world of my own creation, which makes no allowances for distractions like phone calls, food or even potty breaks.

When I’m in the zone, I’ve been known to let the phone ring. I figure if it’s real important, they’ll call back. Okay, so I’m not that bad, I will glance at caller ID before ignoring the call. But I’m really bad about skipping lunch. When I come out of the zone, I look at the clock, and I’m amazed that it’s 4:00 PM and I haven’t had lunch. This means I was so into my space, cows could be flying overhead and I wouldn’t notice. For me to miss a meal is something rather big. I never miss meals if I can help it. I was hardwired to eat at regular intervals.

My loved ones have gotten used to my frequent “trips” into this secluded place. My poor husband knows he has to get my attention and make sure I’m looking him in the eye before he asks me a question. Otherwise, I’m liable to nod my head without really hearing what he has to say. (He always quizzes me later.)

But, when I’m there, tuning out the rest of the world, I’m at my most productive, creative state. Sometimes I don’t realize what I’m writing; I just write. I go back later and it’s as if I’m reading someone else’s words.

I don’t think non-artists can relate as well as other artists. They just call us moody or reclusive. I’m cool with that because I have eight published books proving how productive I am when I’m reclusive and moody. Too fun.

When you have to throw the words away

I just spent two weeks working on two chapters at the end of the
sequel to "Heartsong", a medieval romance available from
Champagne Books. There's one chapter left to finish!

But as I reread what I had written - (I don't write to the end
of the book and then go back and edit. No, I'll write a scene
and then go back to reread what I've written, changing what
needs to be changed as I go)

But, back to my tale. As I reread, I couldn't believe how the
hero came across. Personally, I would have left him to wallow
in his own pathetic guilt... He felt like a real loser!

It just didn't work. I ruined the story. The heroine would have
been justified in throwing him over a cliff.

I had to do something. I ran the present situation by my patient
husband and said what if... (an author's favorite expression)
After we talked about the plot for a few minutes he told me
how he would react. Now, I'm not saying the heroes of my books
are inspired by my husband, but he has an iniate sense about what
will work and what won't.

So, I'm back to rewriting two chapters. And I have to say, I'm
pleased with the emotions being displayed by my hero. Now, again
I like the guy - and yeh! Maybe he is a bit like my own hero.

Allison

Authors don't need 'friends'

That was the title of an article in the Globe and Mail last week. The topic discussed was the marketing of books and the requirement to be online.

The author of the article doesn't buy into the argument that an online presence is necessary, instead suggesting that old fashioned methods like posters on telephone polls is the way to go. He also states that getting chosen for Oprah's book club, nominated for the Giller prize or "Canada Reads", or getting prominently displayed in Costco or Indigo is the way to get on the bestseller lists.

I'm not discounting the impact of posters but I can't help but think that there isn't any one thing will result in more book sales but that it is a combination of efforts.

I also think that an online presence ties in very nicely with the concept of eBooks. The very medium lends itself to an online presence, from the posting of excerpts and snippets online to links where people can purchase the eBook. It's a very effective and efficient medium but it's not for everybody.

The other fallacy in the article is that the impact of an online presence is limited to people who are actually online. Most people tend to have friends and family both online and offline. If someone enjoys your book, word can spread to people who have never seen your Facebook or MySpace page (and who probably never will) but that won't stop them from buying your book.

The only portion of the article that I found myself in agreement with were comments made by a colleague of the writer who states that

“As a reader, I'm not that interested in a writer's life or personality...”

She likens it to the separation of Church and State, this distinction between an author talking about topics of interest versus talking about themselves. It's an interesting concept and one that I personally adhere to.

I'd love to know what you think. Leave me a comment - if I don't get back to you right away, I'm probably on hold for Oprah.

Posted by David Boultbee

The story's life

The first thing I need to do in this blog is offer an apology. My day to blog was yesterday and although I have a wonderful imagination and can come up with many, many reasons that I didn’t post, the simple fact is I forgot. I do, however, like the alien abduction scenario and may use it in a future story.

So, now back to my regularly scheduled, albeit late, blog posting.

As a grad student, the focus of my writing world is my MA/MFA program. Over the past few months, my posts have focused on aspects of being a grad student and, sigh, here is another one. Although this exercise in academia has led me to a greater truth about writing and one that I would like to share.

Of course we have to begin with a little grad school story. So here goes; during the previous semester I wrote a YA historic novel. This story is set during the American Revolution and the whole book would have culminated with my main character spying for the Patriots, even though she is not a patriot. So here was my dilemma while writing the draft, my character is not a patriot, but risks her life to save the cause. Why?

Writing fiction allows the writer to make stuff up. It is the one great thing about fiction. So I created a motivation for my character that was not historically accurate and at grad school learned that YA is not a place writer’s can deviate from the facts. The reason for this little rule makes sense. Kids are just learning their history and to give them an accurate book EXCEPT a fact or two is confusing. I am the mother of three, I get it.

So after more research and much soul-searching, I came up with vague ending and decided to find the point where my story became inaccurate for the sake of feeding into my original ending. It came a lot sooner than I thought. About 16,000 words from the ending I found my first inaccuracy. It took me two days before I worked up the courage to trash those 16,000 words and starting writing anew.

A few days into the rewrites I was working on a scene and an idea came to me and I realized what the story was about. Everything I had written before fed into this one conflict for my character and the subsequent resolution. Yippee! I now knew my story.

So this is the writing truth I learned, a story has a life of its own. It cannot be made to fit into a predetermined box. And if I writer focuses on building the box to hold the story they really aren’t writers, but carpenters using words. I will even say that people who plot obsessively are writers. They are just discovering what needs to happen before they begin to write.

So what can we take away from this? Whether you are a plotter or an organic writer, give yourself the freedom to let the story grow the way it should. Do not write a story about an ending, because in creating what you want, you can miss what you have.

Jen Bokal

Thoughts on Character Points of View

Can you believe summer is half over? Next week July transitions into August. The year is more than half over and summer is just about there.

I've been balancing my day job (which I love) with working on a new story (Knight of Pentacles for eXtasy's Tarot series), my edits for The Spell (due out this fall with Siren-Bookstrand) and reading to escape to someone else's world. Mostly I've been reading cozy mysteries (the latest was Michael Baden and Linda Kenney's Remains Silent -- I heartily recommend it. Even if you don't like cozies or mysteries this one is totally entertaining) and thought I picked up two romantic suspenses by Mariah Stewart, A Moment in Time and A Different Light. The romantic suspense idea came from her most recent books--these are women's fiction, not a favorite genre of mine. I have enough grown up woman angst in my own life without reading about someone else's but I finished the one and am almost done with the other. Both were written in 1995 and she has some interesting ideas that I think we take for granted these days -- a woman running for mayor where the prior administration was corrupt and a small down American girl marrying a British rock star. I don't know about anyone else, but as a kid I was sure I'd marrying one of those British rock stars, Paul McCartney topped my list.

I'm also waist deep in my edits for The Spell and until I started writing and working with editors who are point of view purists, I wasn't one either. I still enjoy knowing what's happening in each character's mind and with a bedroom scene I like to know what both characters are thinking and feeling. With a pursit, you only get to have one person's side of things. Oh well.

I notice that these NY published stories the points of view are all over the place. Sometimes flipping three or four times in a six sentence paragraph. It does read somewhat choppy and in one book recently the head hops were handled by a LOT of internal thought. We're talking two lines of internal thought for every one of dialogue. It started to rip me out of the story with every internal wise crack the character was making, getting to the point of dreading the next chik-litish sounding quip.

I do think one character can know another so well that they know what the other is thinking or feeling. But in the world of POV purism, they can't. It's a struggle to get into it. Somewhere between the free flowing "who said that" I'm seeing in these mid-90's books and the boxed in purism I see in small press books I'm reading there has to be a balance. A blending of the two where the characters are free to express themselves as they really are.

The Times They Are a'Changing

I saw an ad on TV the other day for a personal service you can access via the internet. It got me thinking about just what, exactly, we can and cannot do with a computer and an internet connection. It’s scary to realize just how few things you can’t do on the World Wide Web.

One of the things I found fascinating about researching the Edwardian era while writing Suspicion of Love was just how much the times they were a’changing. In rural areas, there were still few modern devices to help the average family get through their day. But London, where the story takes place, was really the epicenter of the early technological revolution. The city had public telephone booths, movie theatres, a variety of motorized vehicles, electricity running to most homes, and had upgraded their sewage and plumbing systems to prevent waste from getting dumped into the Thames. For turn-of-the-century folks from a small, rural town like the heroine Jacqueline, it must have seemed almost surreal.

Lest we take for granted the technological advances of this century, think for a minute about how many things used to require a trip or a phone call.

Today, we can order groceries, meet and correspond with a romantic partner, talk to someone face to face, get advice from a doctor, veterinarian, lawyer, or accountant, obtain instructions on how to make our own electricity or even build our own bomb, read books, do research, order a meal, visit someone (virtually) in the hospital, watch our kids at daycare or at home via a nanny cam, and a whole host of other tasks.

What can’t we do via the internet? The list is pretty short. The World Wide Web can’t help us fill our vehicles with gas, won’t clean our house for us (although there’s lots of high tech gadgets that help), or actually make a meal (yes, there’s lots of cooking videos and recipes online but they don’t actually prepare dinner). You can’t plant a virtual garden, or raise virtual animals – at least not those you can eat and hands-on play with. When your plumbing springs a leak or your houses collapses, the internet won’t fix it for you, but it can offer some good advice or allow you to order a work crew.

Yep, in this century as in the last, the times they are a’changing. Who knows what the next hundred years will bring.

Candace Morehouse
www.candacemorehouse.com

SURPRISE!

I love giving surprises but am rarely surprised myself. Because I'm too nosey. I don't do it on purpose, but I seem to have a 6th sense that tells me something sneaky's going on. Now if I thought it was a nice surprise for me, I'd leave it alone. [Or maybe not.] But throughout the years and 5 kids, I've always had to make sure nothing was wrong. So I'd very cunningly [a mother has to be sly] cozy up to my prey and voila! before they knew what hit 'em, the problem, the truth, or the crime was spilling from their mouth. And together we'd fix it.

A few times I wish I hadn't pushed so hard because what they'd been hiding was a good thing, something that would've made me very happy, joyous even if I'd just had a little patience. Like the time my husband had taken my daughter Christmas shopping and he'd come home with a glint in his eye while she was bouncing on the balls of her feet. So ok, I knew nothing was wrong, guessed by their secret glances at each other that it had to do with my present. I should not have finagled an opportunity to have my 7 year old daughter alone in the car with me. And I should not have opened a conversation about Christmas, leading it around to how happy she was going to be when she opened her presents. Teasing her until she finally said that's ok, don't tell me. I won't tell you either but you're gonna be so happy when you—then her fingers tapped-tapped-tapped on an imaginary typewriter on her lap. Her big brown eyes grew even bigger. She was horrified that she'd let the secret out.

But last week trickery wasn't the way I found out about my surprise birthday party. My husband asked me to come outside. When I got in the driveway, I saw the metal gazebo frame next to the garage door. He wanted to know which way it looked best; this way or that way. I'd been after him for weeks to put the canvas over the frame in the backyard. I told him it looked stupid there on the hot pavement and to put it back in the backyard. In the midst of my scold, ahem, harangue, he blurted out, "It's for your party." [We often bbq in the driveway because there's usually a breeze there and neighbors can't see us.] Then he explained my daughter who now has a family of her own was planning my mumble-to-obscure the # birthday party next month. Now I was really shocked and scolded him for ruining her surprise which I discovered she'd just told him the night before.

Well hell, by now she should know no one can keep a secret from me.

Rose Lerma
www.roselerma.com

Perspectives

Michael W. Davis

Davisstories.com

Bear with me on this post and read to the end because it’s not what you first expect.

When my boys hit their teen years I wanted to help them establish proper perspective with the true nature of life. I explained that our journey from birth to dead was a series of hills and valleys. It’s easy when you’re at the top of a mountain to gaze out and feel positive about things. The trick is to remember when you’re down in a valley it’s just part of the journey and shortly you’ll climb up again and see the sunshine. Hopefully each of us has more mountain tops then valleys in our path but if we keep perspective about those days up on the peaks then the pits wouldn’t seem so bad. I know they listened because I’ve heard them reflect such thoughts in conversations with friends and other family members.

I find lately that, for some reason, I’ve lost that perspective. There are more dark days then light, which is odd seeing I’ve arrived in that stage referred to as the golden years. Being analytical by nature, I’ve tried to assess the cause, and I’ve come up with many possibilities:

1. Could be the nature of retired life. I don’t have the accomplishments and challenges when I struggled with complex problems in my job to support the military. I’ve talked to other retired men and many sense that lose of challenge they used to have in their work.

2. Could be the change in hormones. As men advance in years our testosterone levels decrease. Besides the obvious change in drives and strength, I’ve always felt clarity of purpose and zest for my existences being a man.

3. Maybe it’s all the aches and pains I seem to have now. I remember when I was a teenager hearing my dad moan and groan each morning as he got out of bed to go to work. Now I sound just like him. Takes two Ibuprofen to kick in before I can move without pain. And I get sore so quickly now. Ten years ago I could perform hard physical labor for 10 hours and just fell fatigue. Now it’s like someone ripping a rake through the muscles in my body. I just finished rebuilding the deck on my house by myself and had to stop every 2 hours for a rest. Man I’m getting old.

4. Or it could just be the state of affairs in America today. The country I struggled for and worked to help evolve and progress has changed so drastically, I don’t recognize it anymore. I’m sure our forefathers are shaking their heads in disbelieve for where we’re headed. No, I’m not worried about myself. I don’t have that long to watch things decline. But the nation, and the life of my children and granddaughter, will not offer the reward and happiness I experienced in my journey. The boobs in DC are doing everything to drag us over the waterfall socially, economically and in terms of the security of our populace. And the media just covers it up. Problem is I’ve always been one to attack problems, solve them, do everything in my power to protect and help my family and friends, but not this time. The mistakes of the past few years are beyond anything the real people in the country can fix. Our leaders are lost or just care about politics and not the true course of our nation. So many in this country are suffering because of the selfish blind ambitions of Washington, so many more will suffer in five years, and yet no one wants to see what’s coming over the horizon. I race to the tip of the mountain and there is no sunlight. Everything in the distance is bleak for the nation that once stood so proud, for the people that mean so much to me, and I can do nothing but watch. I am powerless to stop the insane path we’re on.

Perhaps the state of our existence is the true wound that plaques my thoughts, causes nightmares, washes away the smile and humor that once accompanied my spirits everywhere I went, no matter how windy and dark the storm outside. Or maybe I should just fake it, like so many. Maybe that is the new perspective I seek, a return to the matrix and ensuing fantasy world where things make sense and we imagine control over our destiny. That’s it. I’ll just have them plug me back into the machine. Yes, yes, that is much easier, much less painful. It’s not real, but who cares. The truth is so ugly, why deal with it. Ah, I feel better now. Forgive my excursion into the reality outside the matrix. Thanks for listening. I don’t know what got into me. Must have been something I ate last night. Oh, one more thing. If a bald black guy wearing dark glasses and a leather jacket offers you two pills, be sure to take the red one so you can stay in here with me where all is well.

OMG, what just happened in the post above? Has the big guy gone off the deep end? No, relax, I’m not going postal. I just shared the process I use to evolve the flaws and reality in the main characters in my stories. I’ve been fortunate in many of my 5 star reviews to be cited for the realism and relationship readers develop with my characters. The way I do it is to select an internal conflict or defect for the main characters that relates somehow to the premise or theme of the story.

For example in TAINTED HERO the premise was sometimes good people do bad things. The struggle for Eric (the hero) was his ability to deconflict between good and bad from a social and a personal level. In FORGOTTEN CHILDREN the premise was Greed is blind to human suffering. The defect in the hero Mark, an investigative reporter, was his willingness to ignore the slippery slope. When Mark discovers a crime, he doesn’t share with the authorities because he sees them as a bureaucracy that will only encumber solving the case. The ends justify his means because he will solve the crime sooner, at least that’s the self induced motive he uses to justify his actions. In the end he comes to grip with the repercussions of the villain’s willingness to do what Mark did under the guise of the greater good of mankind, and the fact that his flawed judgment may have cost lives. I know, seems complicated to create a story to accomplish linkage between the story premise and the characters personality, and it is, but I enjoy doing it.

In the illustration above with my discussion of “perspective” I was actually evolving the conflict within the hero for a new story I’m currently working on with my coauthor budette, Candace Morehouse, called WHISPERS OF INNOCENCES. Over the past few years the hero, Drake Elliot, has lost perspective on his life, who he is as a man, his relationship with his family; and that detachment from the true relevance of what’s important has cost him dearly. Now, how do I create that struggle and realism with Drake and all my other characters? I use myself as a guinea pig. With most of us, to varying degrees at some point in our existence, we have been confused or struggled with specters and demons of all kinds. Well so have I, a lot of them. So, I select the conflict (in this case perspective) and evolve what it would be like for me on a personal level, and I do it completely, like it is real. I take my struggles with that condition from memory and expound on it, then I mold and convert it to my character. If I haven’t experienced that particular conflict I become absorbed in how I would react and struggle to such conditions.

Like I said, it is involved, but I thing it helps to derive realistic characters, and there’s a little of me in each hero or heroine. If you want to see how things work out for Drake and the heroine in WHISPERS OF INNOCENCES, come back in about a year and a half, that’s how long the writing/publishing process takes for the story to be released.

See ya in four weeks.

Big Mike
Michael W. Davis (Davisstories.com)
Author of the year 2008:

Blind Consent, “The answers are buried in the secrets of the past.”
Forgotten Children, “Only Sara knows the truth.”
Tainted Hero, “Sometimes good people do bad things.”
The Treasure, “A lonely heart can impair one’s judgment.”
Veil of Deception, “Sometimes the truth cuts deeper than a lie.”

July Writing Prompt - Apple Pie

July is a release month for me. Selling Forever, my fun, sweet novella, is a twist on those bachelor auction storylines of the 1980's. Remember those? Too much fun.

So for my writing prompt, I'm using a photo I incorporated in Selling Forever (see, writing prompts can turn into publishable manuscripts)

$$$

Richard stood in the surprisingly nice-smelling condo hallway wondering what the hell he was doing. Returning the glass pie plate, sure, but he could have sent someone to do that. Cara had it delivered to the office, the pie hot from the oven, wrapped in one of those insulated pizza delivery bags.

He should have sent it back right away, the pie. It was a bribe, but it smelled so good that he tried a piece, a tiny sliver turning into half the pie before Richard could bring himself to share with his colleagues.

He should have also left the licked clean pie plate downstairs with the security guard. That would have been the logical solution. Not that he got the chance to think about it. The sleepy-eyed man took one look at what was in his hand and waved him up. No need to ask whom he was here to see.

For him to do that, Cara Jones must bake a lot of pies. Why would a real estate agent be baking pies? Richard didn’t know. Nevertheless, he was grateful. It was very good pie.

The least he could do was thank her personally for that very good pie. That was it though, just a thank you at the door. No crossing the threshold. No volunteering to be auctioned off like a prize bull. And definitely, no buying a house.

He pushed the doorbell before he changed his mind. About anything. Especially the buying a house bit.

$$$

To read another excerpt from Selling Forever and to enter to win Kimber Chin's favorite romance eBook of the month, visit http://businessromance.com/

Settings

Summer is a wonderful time up here on the south shore of Lake Superior, even if I am allergic to every weed that blooms. I truly enjoy it between episodes of sneezing and blowing my nose. And, yes, I take antihistimines--don't believe all those glowing promises the drug companies make in their commercials. In spite of the problems allergies pose, though, I enjoy summer. Despite the mosquitoes and biting flies, too.

The lake across the road stretches all the way to Canada, blue and beautiful. Greenery surrounds the house--maple, ash, wild pin and choke cherry trees--plus wild blackberry vines and dogwood bushes. The tiny thirty-four evergreens the Viking dug up from a relative's acreage lot on the beach and planted here when we first moved to this spot eight years ago have grown tremendously--most taller than he is. We've both been able to identify evergreens since we were young, so we have white pine (five needles to a cluster), spuce (needles all around the stems), balsam (flat needles on the stem), and cedar (smooth, flat cluster of needles). But he also dug up and planted some beautiful little feathery-needled evergreens with drooping branches we couldn't identify. Since two of his nephews are loggers, he asked one of them to take a look. So we found out we also planted a few hemlock on our property as well. Hemlock changes as it grows and is a more raggedy-looking adult tree than those feathery branches would indicate.

All of this got me to thinking about how where we grow up influences what we learn. Because both of us grew up in this village on the lake, surrounded by trees, neither of us can remember how early we learned to identify trees by their foliage. Also animals by their markings and which ones to avoid--porcupines, skunks, bears. Since our childhood when they became extinct here, wolves have migrated here from where they were reintroduced in Minnesota years ago, coming through Wisconsin to the Upper Peninsula. Fisher, best described as an animal that has the meanness of a wolverine, plus the sneakiness of a weasel, were reintroduced here to control the explosion of porcupines after fishers were hunted down to none for their fur many years ago. They seem to be the only animal that can kill a porcupine without getting needled. And at least one cougar has also been sighted. Not to mention the coyotes that seem to have infiltrated almost every state on their own. But I digress.

Back to how where one lives can influence someone for a lifetime. As an adult I've lived in Alabama, Texas, California, both on the coast and in the San Joaquin Valley, Nevada and upstate New York along the Hudson River. Each place had its own ambience, and those I lived in for more than a year, I still use for settings, because I never lost the feel of the area. Yet Michigan's U.P. is more ingrained in me than any other. Yes, it's changed, but not as markedly as all the other places I once lived have.

I've asked myself if it's easier to set a book in a familiar place than use a location you've never even seen, and my conclusion it--no. What the strange place does take is a lot more research to be sure you don't make gross errors. In historicals, if set back far enough, nobody yet alive can challenge you if you happen to make a small error--as long as it's not a historical one that can be checked on. So there's a certain amount of freedom even when you use a famous character that actually lived. If research tells you he was in that place at that time. you're free to have him interact with your characters. As long as you don't have him do something he obviously wouldn't do, or say something he obviously wouldn't say. For example, I once used William Tecumseh Sherman at the time he was a lieutenant stationed in California ( yes, he actually was). He rescued my werewolf hero (who was in human form at the time). Later in the book, my hero fought under Sherman in the Civil War. I found it fun to get to know Sherman by reading a biography and also his letters to his wife. He was only a minor character in the book as a whole, but he really did live, and I wanted to get to know him to be sure he didn't act out of character when I featured him. So don't be afraid to use famous people who lived at the time in a historical novel. It adds color to a story. Jane

Trying my hand...

Most all of my author friends have some sort of logo that when you see it, you know that it's theirs without even reading the name. I was told I needed such a thing by a friend--who's opinion I trust completely. I had come up with one--a lovely sunset image my dad took, but it didn't convey what I wanted to convey. Then, I came upon an idea.

Every since I was a little girl whenever I had a bad time, family members ill, heart breaks, confusion over the right decision to make, I had a friend who visited me in my sleep. This friend was a beautiful blond who was so soothing, so comnforting, so protective, I felt instantly at peace whenever she came near. She was over 6 feet long, muscular build, large paws--a female cougar. Even though I am a Christian, (even though it is a contradiction to a point)I beleive this cougar to be my spirit guide or totem.

I decided to honor her in my quest for a logo. So, I've dome up with a couple of options and I thought what better way to get opinions than to share them here--with you. So, if you'll indulge me, I'd like to show them and then get your opinions:

1:

2.

I'm really curious to hear what you readers think. I'd love it if you'd leave your vote in the comments section. Thanks!

Have a great week. I leave for my vacation on Saturday at 6 am (and I'm SOO ready to go! See the lovely images in the background of the pix? THATS what I'm going to see--for all of next week!)

Hugz!

Donica

Murphy's Law...

Why couldn't Murphy have put a positive spin on his 'law'??

My 15 year old son's friend went to Florida for the week for family vacation...due back Sunday. While he's away, he asked my son to keep his leopard gecko, tree frog, fish and water frogs (all in their own separate tanks, of course). As we have a small petting zoo with lizards, frogs, fish, and multiple four-legged friends, we're well aware of how to care for them and felt sure there would be NO PROBLEMS.... *cough*

We've had the guest reptiles since last Friday. They were doing quite well until yesterday...my son called me at work and says, "Er, mom....I can't find the tree frog."

"What?" I ask, heart in my throat.

"It was there last night, but I can't find it...."

He took everything out of the cage, as did I when I got home and searched high and low, to no avail. The danged frog was no where to be seen. I hate to think about it in the midst of our curious canine and feline companions. I did notice that when my son replaced the lid on the cage there was an opening big enough for the frog to escape if not double checked for security.

I looked again this morning, still, no luck. We feel awful about it. I really hope they don't think my 6 year old let him out. *cringe* We were only trying to help out a friend in need and wham--came back to bite us in the butt!! I'm going frog shopping tonight, needless to say.

On the up side of life, writing is coming along with several pans on the fire and several others in the waiting line. =)

Hope Murphy keeps his law far from you and yours!

Until next time,

Angie

http://www.angelaashtonbooks.com/

Amulet of Fate

Once A Rebel

Corsair Cove

http://www.champagnebooks.com/

..come find me on facebook!

This is not a farm.

I love fields. Waving, green, rustling fields of tall grass. The sight is soothing on a warm summer day.

But not in my neighbour's backyard.

Since I was twelve, Uncle Bob lived next door. A retired farmer, he took pride in his lawn and his rose garden. We were often put to shame by his obsessive property maintenance. Our lawn by comparison was environmentally friendly, meaning no pesticides. It was green, but mostly from the weeds. We did our best to keep it under control. Really, we did.

When Bob passed away, another family bought the house. The roses became wispy and ragged and the clematis vines flopped to the ground. Three weeks ago we arrived home to find the front lawn cut, but the mower sat abandoned before reaching the back yard.

It sat.

And sat. The grass in their back yard grew to over two feet high.

The longer the mower sat, the more my imagination brewed. I began to wonder if something had happened to the unfortunate operator of the mower. They don't speak much English and we rarely see them outside. I was too shy to knock on their door to inquire if they were all right.

On Saturday, I started thinking of fantastic stories to go with this scenario. Then I thought it would be a great idea to invite stories from readers, based on the picture.

Somebody must have seen me taking pictures, because the next morning they had succeeded in wrestling the grass into submission.

Just for fun, tell me what you would have written based on the photograph.

--Sandra Cormier

My Fourth of July excitement

I have parking issues. I can’t leave my car parked in just any spot. If I pull into a mall or department store, I have to park in the very back of the parking lot. I have this phobia that if I park too close to other cars, someone will park right up against my doors, either the driver or passenger doors, and I won’t be able to get in. Then I won’t be able to leave when I want. I’ll be trapped.

This Fourth of July, my worst fear came true. I attended my local county fair on Saturday. I parked in a field. I was a bit concerned about getting stuck in the mud, considering how hard it had rained the previous night, but there were no other cars parked around me, so I wasn’t altogether concerned.

I left my car to enjoy the fair. After a visit though four buildings, the cow barn, the chicken tent, a lap down the midway to enjoy a fried dough and an ice cream, I trudged back to my car.

My heart leapt in my throat. My car was totally blocked in. An F-150 truck parked ahead of me, mini-van behind me. After a brief but strong panic attack, I hurry to the back entrance gate and plead for one of the fair workers to help me. One insists there is nothing she can do.

“But it’s the Fourth of July!” I wail. Most likely those who have trapped me in are staying for the demolition derby and the fireworks display following the show. I’m clearly doomed.

A fireman at the gate takes pity on me and summons a police officer passing by on a horse to call over to the main office and have the licenses of those blocking me paged over the intercom.

“But how are they going to hear the announcement over the demolition derby?” I continue to whine. I’ve already ate my weight in midway snacks. What the heck am I supposed to do until midnight or later when these people decide to leave?

So they announce the licenses. Nothing. An hour passes, and no one comes to my rescue, except the fireman and policeman who have been extremely patient with my impatience. The policeman now starts talking in his intercom, pocket radio thing. Thirty minutes passes, and a tow truck shows up. As it hoists the mini-van up and onto its apparatus, I ask the policeman what he’s doing. Turns out he ran each vehicle through the records, and the min-van has been identified as stolen.

Huh? Someone would steal a vehicle in my lil’ ol’ neck of the woods? Wow, this is just like an episode of Cops! Now I no longer want to leave. Now I want to know who would steal a maroon mini-van with a “Soccer Mom” bumper sticker.

But my car is free. Free as we are this Fourth of July. I hope you all had a wonderful holiday.

~ Nancy

http://www.nancyhenderson.com/
http://www.nancyhenderson.blogspot.com/

Loyalty

As an author, there's nothing that can drive warm and fuzzy feelings into your heart more than a fan who tells you that they can't wait to read whatever you write. Granted, that also bears with it the pressure of producing your next work at a level that's worthy of that type of loyalty.

So, here's to all of those fans out there who have voiced their loyalty for a particular author, and for those authors who need to get out there and finish their next work for those fans to enjoy.

In the comments, feel free to post your fan-crush loyalties!

And everyone have a happy Independence Day!

THE ESSENCE OF A HERO

The hero of a story must reach into the reader's heart and soul, making he/her believe in that character's reality, must make them want to cheer them on, must ache when they hurt, cringe when they are embarrassed, fear when they are threatened, and cry if they die. But what makes a hero? How do we as writer's reach that conclusion? How do we perceive the essence that will bring about the desired results and have a man say, oh yeah, I'd following him and face the hordes of hell, or a woman yearn to be safe in his arms. We obsess over finding just the right blend of traits and we believe we have touched on one in particular. Russell Crowe… Best Actor. Works for me. Gladiator… Best Film… a study in heroes. Their hero-dom arose from their leadership qualities.

I’d like to exam Russell Crowe in Gladiator and specifically only the first five minutes of the movie. In my view it was these five minutes that set this movie and this character out to be something special. He breathed humanity into the armor clad Maximus. A time when his struggle through life was far from what we’d think humane yet he was strong as well as compassionate.

I saw a portrait of passion coupled with honor. Maximus was magnanimous. Your first vision of him shows an unkempt bearded clear-eyed man. Set poised in the snow flurries of a winter day focused on the moment. Unaffected by the climate. His proud walk amidst his troops reflected an honest connection. His version of high fives, fist to fist, depicted a sharing of strength and a man willing to touch his charges. A man not at arms length but approachable. It was obvious he stood shoulder to shoulder with them during battles. It was the image of a man’s man. A man who’d take the back of his brother-in-arms. Additionally, qualities of one whom was a leader. Not an order giver… but a man in the trenches and showing the way.

He described his army as “…lean and hungry.” Simplistic yet speaks volumes. Their physical shape. Fat free… Un-contented. Focused on a goal. Everything an athlete wishes to be prior to any contest. Everything any businessperson wishes to be prior to any deal. These three words connected to the deep-seated competitor found in most.

When Maximus’ second in command reacted to the Horde’s refusal to surrender with, “They don’t know when they are conquered,” Maximus stoically replied, “Would you… would I?” He honored his foe… his second in command… and himself with respecting the never quit… never give in… never say die attitude. Tenacity toward attaining a goal is a powerful belief, which is held high in the view of most.

His personal preparation for the moment of truth, the battle, was that he stooped, took dirt into his hands and rubs them with it. This unpretentious moment of focus showed a simple man. The dirt absorbing the sweat of his hands, hands that would be his tools in the fight. An act of readiness, a point of demarcation, the line between General and Warrior was seen in this private moment.

His look at his dog, a powerful dog, which showed a man who was complex enough to have such a loyal cur. Historically, an image of a dog as a man’s friend helps show a character deep, confident and human.

Maximus’ salutation to his second in command was “Strength and honor.” Pure genius. Strength…force… power… might… energy… intensity… vigor… brawn… virility. Honor…integrity… honesty… morality… regard… dignity… rectitude. A balance between power and integrity.

Maximus’ final order was “At my signal… unleash Hell!” If you never fought you might not understand. If we fight we must fight to win. I believe this. If we choose to do something, do it as well as we can. Half-fast is half-assed. I respect the pureness of this attitude because it respects the mission of the moment.

A leader emerged before my eyes. Maximus joined his cavalry, the force with which he would be riding into battle. It was at this point in time he showed himself to be a man of vision. Explore the quote, “Imagine where you will be and it will be so…” Visionaries can make great leaders. Their visions capture their followers. But a visionary without substance, i.e., an idea man, does not a leader make. A vision coupled with a willingness to do what’s imagined is the purest form of leadership.

The five minutes ends with this statement by Maximus, “What we do in life echoes in eternity.” The essence of the dream/desire that we want to make a difference on time. We matter. Not just our time but all time. We want to be remembered. We want a legacy. We understand we’re fragile creatures whose fate in life is that we die. So between birth and death what we do must matter. If we can’t buy into to that then we question our purpose to exist at all. We sense our soul will have a life-after thought that is intangible but that tangible life-after is reflected in the monuments we build to ourselves, and these are usually in the forms of accomplishments, people that we have truly affected and our children.

Maximus rises out of these five minutes as a man’s man leader, an unpretentious visionary with a grasp of the magnitude of the moment, a man with an eye on the goal and a passion to do what is essential to achieve it. Powerful stuff.

This is a great man’s flick. However, this was not a chick flick but Maximus is also the personification of a woman's hero.

I share this because it helps define the rare qualities of a real man with character and strength and when we word picture heroes we have to start with an essence. I wrote this many years ago and maybe out-dated but the concept of hero is never.

So why share the aforementioned point of view? As caretakers of the genesis of the characters in our stories, we hold a responsibility to every reader to grabble with imagery and respect the iconic ideals, such as heroism.

In closing, we try to take these and similar traits into the embodiment of our heroes. Though they may be uniquely different in personality, they have that similar underlying core of values, strength, and determination. The sort of man that will cut himself fairly badly but will finish what he is doing before tending to that wound. The sort of man who a woman will feel safe with even when she feels quite capable of protecting herself. The sort of man who will climb into your world, and will stay a part of it, forever.

At least that is what we hope to bring to our heroes. If you read our stories, you'll have to let us know if you agree.

Idea Generator

What do we do when the muse suddenly stops talking to us? 

Writers get their ideas from all sorts of fun places. The older a writer is, the more life experience he/she has to draw from. I find that to be very true. I wrote my first full novel when I was twenty but to be honest, there wasn't an original idea within those pages. Yup, 400 pages typed on an electric typewriter that was mostly regurgitated facts from other novels I'd read. It's in a safe place under the bed protected by an army of dust bunnies. At twenty, I just didn't have an idea generator at my disposal. I had the desire to write but not the experience. That doesn't mean a young person can't write a great book. It just means for me, it didn't work.

So what is an idea generator? For me it's a collection of experiences, incidents, dreams, research and the endless "what if" questions we all possess. Experiences can be as simple as a humorous conversation with friends to travel abroad. They broaden our base of knowledge. Incidents are so important as many writers rely on even the smallest incident to help with a particular character's development or to add spice to a chapter. Dreams allow us to delve into deeper issues that touch the unconscious mind. And the well of "what if" questions help generate the more imaginative stories. 

Without a broad base of knowledge, writers have a more difficult time being prolific. So, when my muse wants a vacation, I take one with her so I can replenish my container of ideas. I'm very fortunate that my mother loves to travel and often needs a travel bud. She took my daughter and I to Paris last summer. Next summer? She's invited me to go to Scandinavia. Wow. Wish I'd had this opportunity before writing my Viking time travel. But - I am so looking forward to gathering more ideas in which to jump start my muse. 

In the meantime, I am going to have to sit down and draft some "what if" questions to try and work through a difficult scene. Wish me luck. 

Love Comes Blindly is now available!!!

I'm so excited! My Victorian, Love Comes Blindly, is at last released. This is the final book in the "Fielding Brothers" saga. For those who have read Always, My Love and Vows Of Deception, you'll know the hero to my recent release - Gregg Fielding. I've received one awesome review for this book already!

5-Hearts!!! Ms. Phyllis Campbell did a great job of writing this book and keeping this fast-paced story moving at the speed which defied monotony. She created her main characters so that there were multiple levels to their personalities. This just made the couple more than fascinating. The supporting cast members were believable and the plot was so remarkable that it was almost impossible to put it down. The sensuality between the couple was incredible. Campbell definitely knows how to put the sizzle in a relationship. The tension written into the script just showed her ability to capture her readers. The myriad of poignant scenes captivated me and I’m so glad to have read this story. The surprises were non-stop. I loved this book and highly recommend it to others.~~ Brenda / The Romance Studio


If love isn’t blind to past indiscretions, can absence truly make the heart grow fonder?

Lord Gregory Fielding has been wounded when he travels to Scotland to find the next big story for his London newspaper. Now blinded, he relies on the soft, comforting touch of one of the nurses at St. Mary’s Abbey. He thinks she’s a novice, but that doesn’t stop him from wanting to make her sigh in passion.

Madeline O’Neil cannot believe her misfortune. The man she had almost married three years ago is back in her life. Gregg doesn’t know who she is and she doesn’t dare tell him. Not until she makes him like the new Madeline. But as each day passes and her heart grows fonder, she fears he’ll hate her for certain once his eyesight returns. Especially when he discovers the secret she’s been keeping from him for three years…

**excerpt**
Gregg really didn’t want to call her Sister. He wanted to think of her as a real woman, not a nun. The tingles racing through his body reminded him how pleasurable a woman’s touch could be.

She moved to stand, but he grasped her hand and pulled her back down to the bench. “Mary, thank you for telling me. I feel I know you better now.” He rubbed her soft fingers.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have told you, but I feel like I know you better, too.”

He nodded.

“And Lord Gregg?”

“Yes?”

“Please call me Sister Mary.”

He grinned. “I know you’re not a nun.”

“But it’s not proper to call me Mary. I would hate to explain this to the other nuns.”

“Indeed, so I will only call you Mary when we’re alone.” He shook his head and chuckled. “It’s hard to think of you this way. I feel we’ve become close friends.”

“We have.”

“I wish... I wish I could see. I want to see your face. I’ll bet you’re beautiful.”

Taking both of her hands in his, he pulled her closer. Soft, delicate fingers rested in his palms. He ran the pad of his thumb across each finger. Slim. He suspected her body would be this way, too. Slowly, he moved his touch to her wrist, which was also small. As he continued up her arms, she stiffened. He waited for her to stop him or pull away, but she did neither.

He paused again when he reached her shoulders. A slight quiver came from her. Cautiously, he moved his fingers over her collarbone to her neck. Smooth skin met his fingertips, as did a wild pulse. Her throat moved in what must have been a swallow, and he copied that movement with his own, trying to add moisture back into his suddenly dry mouth.

Had he been the first man to touch her like this since she studied to become a nun? The thought thrilled him and made him want to keep touching. Small gasps came from her, and he enjoyed hearing them.

He continued up her slim neck toward her face. Quick, hot breaths exhaled from her mouth and fanned his skin. Excitement gushed through him, and his own breathing became ragged. His manhood stood at attention as encouragement to do more. He’d never became this aroused by touching a woman, especially with her clothes on. And to think he didn’t know what she looked like. Yet for some reason, it didn’t matter.

She had a small chin, and when he reached her dry lips, they were parted. He couldn’t stop from sweeping his thumb across her bottom lip. He wanted so much to stroke her tongue, and he struggled to keep from pushing the tip of his thumb into her mouth.

Licking his own parched lips, he continued the exploration and moved his fingers over high cheeks before stroking closed eyelids. Long, thick lashes tickled his skin. When he touched her hair, she sighed, and he nearly joined his voice with hers. Soft, silky, and curly, a lock of hair brushed his fingers.

He imaged what she looked like, and Mary was very lovely.

He dropped his fingers to her mouth again. This time they were moist. She must have licked her lips. His arousal ached with need. How he wanted to kiss her.

“You’re a very beautiful woman, Mary,” he said huskily. “I imagine your eyes are an amazing color, also. Let me see if I can guess.” He paused for only a moment. “Green...no, they’re blue. No, they’re turquoise.” Her gasp made him smile.

“How did you know?”

“I’ll confess. My friend, Lord Calvin, told me.”

She took his hands from her face and pushed them away. “I need to get you back to your bed now. Afternoon prayer time will be starting soon, and then I will have to help prepare the mid-day meal.”

Her voice wasn’t sensual any longer. Instead, it was edged with panic. Had he disturbed her as much she disrupted his thoughts?

She moved around him and pushed his wheelchair. By her hurried steps, he knew that he’d upset her. His heart ached. That was the last thing he wanted to do.

“Mary?”

“Sister Mary, please.”

He scowled. She really didn’t sound like a nun. She didn’t smell like a nun, and she didn’t gasp like one, either.

“What do you want, Lord Gregg?”

“I want you to call me Gregg.”

Her long pause made him hold his breath.

“If you wish,” she said.

“I do. I also want to tell you I’m sorry.”

The wheelchair slowed. “Thank you.”

“Do you know what I’m apologizing for?”

“Yes.”

“Sister Mary? May I ask you another personal question?”

“No.”

He chuckled. Her reply came too quickly. “Have you let other men touch you like that since...you came to live at the Abbey?”

She expelled her breath and it blew across his neck. He grinned. Yes, he disturbed her, to be sure.

“Lord...umm, I mean Gregg, I’ve made many mistakes in my past. I’m not immune to a man’s touch.”

“But you haven’t allowed a man to touch you since?”

“No.”

“Is that why your heart was racing?”

“Yes. But, Gregg, you can never do that again. Do you understand? I...cannot have those feelings.”


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~Phyllis~