Champagne Books - Book of the Year

So how in the hell did this happen? Like every other novel written, Rogue Dancer began as little more than a jumble of ideas, in this case bolstered by being the second book in a series. Still, it was all in my head, and ideas are a dime a dozen. Seriously, you can get some great ideas after spending one hour at a science fiction convention listening to a room full of dreamers. I had an interchange once with Todd McCaffrey who explained things quite simply. "Write a novel with good characters and people will buy it."

I would add one more caveat to his sage advice. Learn how to use the written word, and don't forget that what one pair of eyes can do, two or more pairs can do much better. Especially if those eyes belong to other writers.

Lets start with characters. This is why I write what is often termed "space opera" - science fiction where the emphasis is not on forecasting the future so much as presenting the struggle of people caught up in future events. Characters are living, breathing, imperfections of an ideal. The hero with a conflicted soul. The villian who is simply trying to do the right thing. A soldier who stares at their weapon, and asks why. No props. No cut-out comic book characters. People, in all their wonderful flaws and virtues. Rogue Dancer is about people. I clothe them in alien forms, but we are still talking people. My main character is not always smart, and not always right. She faces adversaries moved as much by a genuine fear of change as they are a perceived threat to their influence. Neither side is particularly happy with what they see in the mirror. There is also a natural longing for companionship, and a need to return to simpler times as the young woman strives for recognition from within a reluctant savior. You will see friendships born, and others frayed, as the cost of being a hero is made clear. This is how I interpret good characterization.

Amazon.com is choked with the flotsam of writers whose talent outweighed patience. VanGoghs with a bucket instead of a brush. They self-publish because no respectable publisher will tolerate the poor grammar, broken sentences, and heavy info-dumps typical of untrained writers. You have to learn how to write. Not just basic grammar, but how sentences flow. What makes a good plot, and how to control the pacing like a rising crescendo toward your grand finale. How to gently let the last refrains drift a reader into a satisfied ending. This takes time to learn - and lots of practice. Too many of the "I want it now" crowd fail to pass this crucial test, and add to the heap of garbage being processed by the various vanity presses out there. Me? I took three college-level writing courses just to get the basics tacked down. I spent years practicing with short stories, and wrote two novels that taught me much - but were not ready for prime time. In short, I learned the rules. It doesn't have to take decades, but it certainly takes more than a High School English class. Rogue Dancer is a better book than its predecessors because I continue to learn. It is the culmination of all the above and two previously published novels.

Finally, and for me the most important stepping stone in finding my novel recognized as the best written story of 2009 by my publisher, is the simple fact that I did not do this alone. Rogue Dancer went through five drafts. The fourth draft was produced through the cooperation of people with handles like "Pixie" and "Foxy". These were the writers and lovers of the English word who populate an online writing group I am still enjoying (and are currently helping me wrap up my next novel). I had five authors working over my chapters with line-by-line editing - a truly international effort spanning two continents. In turn, I was doing the same service for their work. This is "WePub", a colony of talented folks with roots in the old "IPub" effort launched by Time Warner. Most of them are published writers, on their way to being so, or simply in love with the written word. Their diligence is behind each of Rogue Dancer's pages. It doesn't stop there. The fifth draft was due to the efforts of Devin Govaere and J Ellen Smith who worked the final product into shape. The graphical talents of Amanda Kesley provided the cover, and the production/promotion was handled by Kat Hall and Tami Winbush. Odds are I forgot a name or two as well. No, Rogue Dancer wasn't just me. It was a team.

And that, dear reader, is how a Book of the Year is created.

Kerry
www.kmtolan.com

A Way Back - an upcoming time travel release!

Here is the tag line and blurb for my January 2011 time travel release.

In the 1930s oil fields of Texas, a woman from the future finds new purpose as she helps a banker rebuild his financial empire.

Amber Mathis, a Wall Street investment banker, returns to her office after burying her mother. Distraught, tired of the rat race, she's determined to make a career change. In the elevator she falls and rises to find herself in a vintage lift. The date is February 25, 1930, and a man stands on the window ledge ready to jump.

Wellman Hathaway, owner and CEO of Hathaway Bank in New York struggles to pay his depositors half their losses. A woman claiming to be from 2009 appears in his office and involves him in a scheme that forces them into marriage. With Amber's knowledge of the financial history of the 1930s, they travel to the oil fields of Texas to recoup Wellman's funds.

Two people from different centuries are thrown together to survive a difficult time. Will they find more than A Way Back to prosperity?

To research for this story, my husband and I visited the East Texas Oil Museum in Kilgore, Texas. They have an entire street scene replicated. Notice in this picture the muddy street. Automobiles shared the roadway with mule drawn wagons.

I loved writing this story. The 1930s was a time of change. It was a time of hardship, but also one when fortunes could be made. I hope you'll travel back in time with me when A Way Back comes out in January 2011.

Thanks for reading!

Linda
http://www.lindalaroque.com/

THE BATTLE: Part 4 – Connections

Michael W. Davis

Davisstories.com

“The Battle” is a series of articles related to my real life trip through a minefield to survive cancer. My purpose is to share my thoughts in the hope others may find counsel in the journey.

All humans possess a network of connections with other people in their lives. This human network comes in layers: family, special buds, friends, business contacts, faces you see in local stores and say hi to each day, etc. This post is about the role the human network plays in our well being, but stick with me for a minute cause I need to interject a little background. Just…hold…on.

In the discipline of applied mathematics, the study and analysis of networks is a special sub field. A few real world examples will help. There are city networks (roadways), biological networks (our nerve or vascular system), infrastructure networks (our power supply), and a ton of other areas of application, including a sub specialty referred to as social networks (e.g. humans touching humans). We all have one, but it varies for each of us in terms of three properties of connectivity: namely depth, breath and strength. Depth pertains to the layers within layers and their complexity. Breath deals with how wide or big the network is, and strength deals with how strong the linkage is between the people in the network. Based on our age, gregarious nature, intro vs extrovert focus and many other factors; the shape, size, depth and importance of the human network to each of our lives is different.

Where in the world am I going with this post, well bear with me, its coming. To some, the relevance of their human network to their state of mind is minimal, in others it is paramount. I’m in the later category, always have been, always will. But I contend as people expand their awareness of what life is really all about, especially as they enter their later years, most begin to draw more and more strength from their network, especially in times of difficulty.

I’ll provide a personal example. Recently I was diagnosed with Cancer, that’s right, the big C word. My point is the tremendous energy that can be gained from your personal connectivity network. I am very fortunate to have a wide and deep network, mostly because I love good people, and I seek them out and do my best to stay in touch. I am also able to recognize and gravitate to individuals who are pure of spirit, broad of heart, and strong in character. I have drawn such powerful support and genuine emotions from my human network. The shared stories, experiences, personal tragedies, and prayers have really firmed up my foundation, and at 300 pounds this old body needs all the support it can get.

Everyone that reached out moved me higher and higher up the state of mind scale, and I can’t reference them all. I picked one as an example, and after you read this one, it should give you a warm and fuzzy about human nature. I have permission to site part of the message from Harvey Tate (http://www.authorsden.com/harveyrtate):

Four years ago I remember sitting in a lonely hospital room in the late hours, wondering if I'd recover from my second bout of congestive heart failure. The night can make you feel mighty dismal. For whatever reason, I began humming the tune "Rainbow Connection" very quietly. The tune kept me from total depression. I kept humming and trying to remember the words. The hours slipped by much easier. Sometime around three in the morning a nurse slipped into the room and told me that she'd seen lots of illness in her job, but the ones who had a positive attitude usually walked out the door. She patted my head like I was a little boy and told me I was going to be fine.

One of my favorite songs I sing my grand daughter has being Rainbow Connections (primarily because I hope she will pattern on the under lying message), but now it will always have another special meaning to me, and hopefully you. My point? Never be afraid to reach out into your human network. We are not really alone unless we want to be. The walls that separate us are by choice and can be torn down. Sure, not all will respond, but many will. Reach out, extend a smile, a hand shake, some positive little words to make someone’s day. You will be amazed how your network grows and grows while willing people that are just like you, that get lonely, need a hug every now and then; they willingly will join your network. And they are real, positive, honest connections. You’d be surprised how many are waiting with open arms to give you a hug, or hold you hand, and if you need one more, hell let me know and I’ll give ya a web hug. And I promise to be gentle.

Setting As A Character

I’m a very lean writer. Not that I’m physically lean. I’m quite round. But I don’t put a lot of extra words in my writing. If I have two words and one word would do, I cut the extra word. This makes for a very quick read. I may have the same word count as other writers but my books read faster.

One of the victims of lean writing is setting. I tend to think of setting as fluff. Maybe because so many writers are… well… uninspired when it comes to setting so I usually skim description when reading. When writing, I put in the bare amount to orientate the reader and that’s it. Some readers love that. Some readers don’t.

I recently took a seminar that changed my thinking. The speaker advised that we think of setting as a character. Setting should have a personality. Setting should be unique. Setting should bring emotion to the scene.

Wow.

I’m all about emotion. If I can use setting to increase or decrease emotion (because high emotion all the time is too wearying), then this is a tool I must use. I applied these lessons right away. Another wow. It works! If my character is sad, she notices the limp flowers in the garden. She drapes herself in gray. She doesn’t focus on the sunshine but on the solitary cloud in the sky. Suddenly, my writing is richer.

Expect to see more description in my writing going forward. This is too much fun!

$

Every month, Kimber Chin gives away her favorite romance eBook read the month before. To enter, visit http://businessromance.com/

Call Me Disconnected

I can never remember passworda, even though I write them down, so every time I'm up to blog, I go through the same process. This time Google wouldn't let me in with the new password, so I had to go through that process twice. Guess it didn't like the first one I chose. Some days I feel I wasn't designed to handle computers, and this is one of them. Yes, I love the ease of them for writing compared to typewriters with carbon paper and up to twenty drafts before you got a clean ms. But, anyway, here I am again, finally recovered from aspirating a stool softener, and scaring poor Elmer who had to do a Heimlich and was afraid he'd break one or more of my ribs doing it as he weighs 194 and I weigh 122. But he didn't. The pill casing popped just fine out and I finally could breathe, but the contents, which were oily, went into my lungs. Not a good idea. Then. of course, I got tendinitis from the antibiotic I had to take. Not a side effect you wnant to get, believe me my writer friends and any stray reader pal who might drop by. But I'm now down to only one nebulizer treatment a day and the tendinitis has all but cleared up, plus my lungs are clear. Believe it or not during this three week period of time I did manage to finish a book. But then all writers are crazy. I had made a New Year's Resolution to finish all the first books in any series I'd once begun, so I have now finished Book One and Two in one series, because I'd started both in the dim past. But when I pulled ali the series out, I discovered I had ten--some trilogies, some with more books. So I winnowed them down to the six series most likly to interest publishers. Even then it'll take me well into 2011 to finish the first book in every one of the six. But I figure if the world ends in 2012, I won't have to worry about doing all of them. I really don't believe it will end, though none of us know how long we're going to live even if the world remains intact. I wonder how many authors have either series or single books started that never have been finished? Probably some, like those I discarded, are not salable, but it'd be interesting to know how many of us out here in the chanchy world of writing have unfinished books that might even become best sellers, if only we'd finish and submit them. I envy those who can zip out a book in no time and not have to revise a bunch of times. I can write fast, but then it takes time to get the ms. in shape to send out. Now it's time to finish the first book in another series instead of the third book in the first trilogy, which I'd really rather do. But that wasn't my resolution, so it's a no no. I do have two contacted-for novellas I have to get done as well, so I'll do one of them before hauling out another seriss first book to work on. Wish me luck. I may have used up all my saved-up luck by surviving that pill aspiration. It was scary. Jane

Author Awards day!

Yes I can't help but be excited. This year my novel Betraying Chase was nominated for Champagne Books' novel of the year! I'm totally excited and can't wait for the awards ceremony tonight!



Tonight is like the Oscars of Champagne Books and I plan on "walking" the red carpet. My gown and accesories are all chosen and I'm totally ready to get into the cyberswing of things.

Here is a little excerpt from the first chapter of Betraying Chase:

A hail of bullets rained down. “Get down!” Chase Willet shouted. One penetrated the windshield as he and his partner Justice Bernard ducked down in the seat. “Damn. I guess Badger and his men don’t like us sniffing around.”
“Understatement.” Justice jammed the car into reverse and squealed the tires. Chase leaned up to get a look out the window. Another gunshot ripped through the air and he felt the burn in his cheek. “Son of a bitch. That hurt!” He put his fingers on the wound. “Little bastard hit me,” he muttered as he stared at the blood on his fingertips. The car lurched as Justice slammed it into park.
Sirens filled the air and soon Mickey Flannery, Bobby del Gado, and a host of other agents surrounded them.
Chase wasted no time diving out of the car and racing into the crowd of dispersing thugs.
He threw himself at one of the runners. They toppled into a stack of cartons. His spine connected with the corner of a box and he winced against the contact. “Damn,” he hissed as he rolled over and the stack beneath him collapsed beneath his weight. Chase rolled onto a knee and shoved up.
Just a few inches away, the kid’s foot slipped and he dropped between a stack of boxes. They crumbled on top of him in a heap. Chase grabbed empty cartons and tossed them to dig the scumbag out. Just as he moved the last box a fist came flying from the opening, Chase jerked out of the path. “Gotcha,” he shouted as he gripped the junkie’s wrist and pulled him out of the trash pile.
The kid pivoted on his heel and jerked up a foot catching Chase in the knee then squirmed out of his grasp.
There wasn’t a backward look as he sprinted off down the alley.
Chase launched himself into another tackle and grabbed the kid at the knees. They hit the pavement with a hard slam that shook Chase to the core. Sweat poured off his face and dripped down through the back of his shirt. He panted hard for breath, moved up and jabbed his knee in the kid’s spine. “Little shit. Stay down.”
The kid finally stopped struggling and Chase secured his flexicuffs in place, then keeping hold of the ties, pulled up to his feet dragging the kid with him. At the car, Chase gave the kid a less than gentle shove inside.
Justice joined them, hauling a second perp. “I hate it when they run,” he groused as the second kid was shoved into the back seat next to his friend.
“Yeah, but look at it this way, we won’t have to hit the gym for a while.”
“I don’t need the gym anyway,” Justice laughed.
Chase slammed the door and paced back through the cars. Most of the gang had been rounded up. He peered into each car, but there was no sign of Badger. Chase stalked back to Justice and Mickey. “He got away,” he growled.
“How’d we let him get away?”
“Are you sure?” Mickey turned and did a quick scan of the vehicles. “Maybe he’s in one of the other cars.”
“Didn’t see Badger,” Bobby said as he walked up to join them.
“Damn.”
Badger was a jack of all junkies, a trucker, dealer, runner, and errand boy. He wouldn’t have been hard to roll.
He just might’ve led them to the proof they needed to bring down Ramiro Gonzalo Sancho Rivera, the largest drug lord in the Americas.
Rivera had been able to pass himself off as a law abiding antiquities importer. In reality, the only thing he imported was death and there was nothing they could find to prove it.
Unfortunately, every time they thought they had someone to flip, the possible snitch turned up dead or disappeared completely. Rivera made sure his tracks were covered.
“He can’t go far.” Mickey tried to sound positive.
“Hey, you ought to have that cheek looked at,” Justice said.
Chase laid fingers against it. No pain, but plenty of blood. He shrugged. “Just a flesh wound.”
Chase and Justice drove back to the field office and went up to their floor. There was paperwork to fill out and perps to question. Chase’s face burned and he reached up at the wound. A bit of blood still trickled down his cheek.
“You need to get that cleaned up, at least. Might need stitches.”
“Brandy’s scratched me deeper than this before.”
Justice grinned and shoved Chase. “Not a visual I’d like to have, thanks.”
“I bet Callye—” Chase slapped his lips shut. It was still a tender subject. Callye, Justice’s wife, was still recovering from her ordeal. She’d been kidnapped by a mid-range dealer and the stuff she’d gone through… He didn’t know all the details. He didn’t want to know. Imagining was enough to give him chills. “Sorry.”
“No worries.” Justice sniffed. “Get to the can and wash up,” he ordered as the elevator doors slid open.
Justice was the unit leader. They worked as a single machine but when he used that tone, the men knew not to push. Chase followed and when Justice veered off to one of the glass interview rooms, he went on down the hall to the bathroom.
The reflection in the mirror was a bit of a surprise. The bullet hadn’t really felt like it hit that deep. He grabbed a handful of paper towels, soaked it in warm water and washed off his face. The skin throbbed and his cheek burned. He pressed the wet paper into it, waiting until it cooled down.
He walked two fingers along the gash. Not that bad.
There was a first aid kit in the file cabinet by his desk. He’d grab some butterfly strips and presto, good as new.
The glass-walled interview rooms lined the hall. Each held one of the suspects picked up from the bust. He looked in at the kid he’d dealt with and stopped short. It really was a kid. He couldn’t be more than thirteen. Damn. Chase felt his blood boil. This kid’s life was over before he got to live it.
He probably wouldn’t make it to see eighteen. If the poison didn’t get him then a rival probably would.
Rivera and all his kind had to be stopped. This was crap. They hooked school kids who in turn robbed shops, or were pimped out for payment. Some had been known to attack the elderly just for enough cash to cover their next score. It made him sick. Rivera was the one they needed to take out. Now if only the evidence would miraculously appear.
~ * ~
Brandy Montgomery grabbed the briefcase from the back of her Mini Cooper and headed inside the house. Chase would be home soon; she had to make it look like she’d actually gone to work.
She pulled out the chair in the computer cubby and flipped on the machine. The file containing the threads for the phantom web design opened and she was staring into the screen when Chase stepped in the front door.
“Honey I’m home.” There was laughter in his voice.
That joke was getting old. Real old. “I’m back here, dear,” she called.
He kissed the top of her head and ran his hands down her shoulders. “How was your day?”
She sighed. “The file got corrupted and I have to go through this damn thing strand by strand to find the break.”
He massaged her shoulders. “Can you fix it?”
“I hope so. How was your day?”
“Not bad. A little hairy, but not bad.”
“Hairy?” She pushed up from the seat and turned to face him. “Oh Chase, your face. Are you all right? Let me get some aspirin.” If her concern sounded so convincing in her ears she could only imagine how Chase heard it.
“Stop fretting. I’m fine. Just a scratch.” He pulled her close.
His arms were so warm and comforting. It wIt was paradise. Stop it. Remember what you’re here for. “Are you hungry?”
“Hmm.” He tilted her face up and pressed his lips to hers then traced the outline with his tongue.
Heat licked at her body. Damn, the man could melt the icecaps in Antarctica. She opened her mouth and urged his tongue inside. He was a hell of a kisser and an even better lover. Lover? Didn’t that imply emotional connection? Sex. That was it. She pulled back. “I asked a question.”
“I’m answering.” He grinned and captured her lips again.
She sagged against him. This was a whole new definition of job perk. “What are you waiting for?” She took his hand and led him down the hall to their bedroom. His hands pulled at her clothes. His hungry mouth covered hers.
Before she could blink, the bed was behind her knees and he gently pressed her into the mattress.
His hands skimmed down her body and then up her thighs. Desire pulsated through her and she felt him against her pelvis. She shifted and reached for the condom in the nightstand. No sense in taking any chances.

I hope you'll join us for the celebration! The festivity information is as follows:


Please join the Champagne authors' for their annual awards night on Tues, April 20 at 9 pm EDT. This is the link http://www.coffeetimeromance.com/ctr_chat.htm where the awards will be held. Hope to see all of you there. Guests will receive a prize.

HUGZ!
Donica Covey

"Adrian's Angel" by Angela Ashton (preview)

I'm anxiously awaiting the cover (and edits) of the upcoming August release (mark your calenders!) of my latest time-travel endeavour & thought I'd give you a peek at the story...

"ADRIAN'S ANGEL"

Saying goodbye to old ghost isn't easy, especially when Adrian Birichino comes face to face with a woman twenty years won't allow him to forget.

Plagued by baffling circumstances surrounding the loss of his childhood sweetheart, Adrian Birichino has spent the last twenty years trying to forget. When fate forces him to return to the town he loathes, his pervasive nightmares turn alarmingly real as a luminous angel steps out of thin air, inducing an accident that leaves his life in familiar hands. Once Adrian hears her demented ramblings regarding who she is and where she's from, will he agree to help her...or commit himself to an asylum once and for all? But if she's just a figment of his imagination, how had she managed to leave behind tangible evidence of her existence?

Having been catapulted to a sinister spot in time, Riley Gail must find a way to convince Adrian she is real and living in the heart of the infamous witch-hunt…else resign herself to be immortalized in the pages of history as one of Salem’s accused forevermore...

Here's an excerpt:

Winter embraced his hometown with a frigid kiss. The frosty flakes formed a blanket of white glittery dust along the terrain, concealing the black ice that pierced Adrian’s soul. The signs on the buildings were vague through the chalky wrath as he made his way down Wharf Street, but they’d not changed. He knew what they said, what each disturbing sign represented. Salem’s Museum of Myths and Monsters. Did his own foolish tale rest therein?

A bone chilling reluctance almost saw him turn the car around and head back to New York, and not for the first time. His old neighborhood was perched along a lofty hillside a few blocks east of the Museum. He didn’t want to see it…didn’t want to stir the frenzy of emotion that refused to lay dormant inside his cursed soul. The infamous town was nothing more than a trivial homage to exploit its terror stricken victims. A city thriving on treachery and deceit, luring tourist to partake, if only for a fleeting moment, of the wrongs inflicted by its horrific past.
Adrian’s therapist called his unyielding resentment by another name. But no matter what labels were placed on his feelings regarding his hometown, his tainted memories of yesteryear, Adrian knew one thing.

He loathed the town of Salem and everything it represented.

I'll post more--and the cover!--when available. I'd based my character on my fav Highlander hero, Adrian Paul (pictured). Birichino means 'little devil' in Italian and I found it quite fitting for the tale...

Until next time...happy reading!

Angie

http://www.angelaashtonbooks.com/

Amulet of Fate

Once A Rebel (Book 1 in the Orphan Train series)

Corsair Cove

...available in print & eBook at http://www.champagnebooks.com/

The Sounds of Summer

I always hear that phrase in musical form. Our local AM radio station needed a new call sign back in the dark ages. When I was eighteen, the owner offered me twenty bucks to record the snippet along with some dude I don't remember.

The studio was in the basement of The Arts Music Store in a local strip mall. I got to sit in a glassed-in booth and sing into a microphone bigger than my face. We did the same piece over and over again, and harmonized with the playback until we sounded like a choir. Then I got to sing, "The sounds of summer," all by myself.

They never aired it and I didn't get my twenty dollars, but the experience was fun.

Now that those lazy hazy days are around the corner, real summer sounds are imminent. Here are some of my favourites:

The crack of a wooden bat against a baseball
The call of a redwing blackbird
The zzzzzzzoip of a tent flap
The high pitched hum of a mosquito
The rumble of distant thunder
Waves lapping and hissing on sand
The dip of a canoe paddle in a lake
The call of a loon
Lawnmowers in chorus across the neighbourhood
Steak sizzling on the barbecue
The tinkling music of an ice cream truck
The snick of a cap off a beer bottle

... and the aaaahhhhh as you settle back in a lawn chair.

What are your summer sounds?

DANCE?

This is a tidbit of Zi's muse which might lead somewhere, might not, but Angelica felt the urge to post and share.


There in the frost of offensive silence, he crossed the room stopping, his keen blue beige eyes instantly thawed that chill. She saw in his broad shoulders a champion, in the cut of his shirt a man of style, and from the tint of the musk of his cologne a man who must have haunted the dreams of so many women. He extended a powerful hand toward her, a hand that bespoke hard work, yet was groomed.

"Dance?"

His voice was deep and rich. That simple query managed to release rushes she hadn't felt for so long. It was 1981, when Peter asked her to prom. She had not expected it, wanted it, but felt he should have asked another. Tonight, like that day she hesitated. This man much like Peter confidently waited for her reply. Eventually, her reply was the same as in
1981. "No!"

Back in high school Peter walked away. This night, this man, lifted the left corner of his mouth creating a charming half-grin, and choose not to retreat. "Let's dance."

He bent at the waist, leaned forward, lifted her from her wheelchair, carried her to the floor, and there they spun and swayed, she held safe in his arms. Found herself easily lost in his massive chest, blanketed by his musk, dreaming of him, and washed in his gentle hum, it the guttural groan of a primal urges. The room's din with the band playing, once uncomfortably loud, became insignificant, and in that moment all was marked, meaningful and telling.

Joyce's friends watched and one became teary. They understood just how beautiful she was. They at the time in their lives where mating and pairing was a priority, and hoped for her. None felt she was at risk of being hurt. They knew this man. Knew his heart. Back in high school Peter was a boy, the wheelchair seemed daunting, but today Peter was a man and could not walk again from the girl who warmed his soul.

We try to touch emotions. We hope we do.

We love to hear from anyone interested in what we do. Anyone who writes us at angelicahartandzi@yahoo.com and leaves an s-mail address, we will send you a gift and add you to any future mailings.

We'd love to hear from anyone interested in what we do. Anyone who writes us and leaves an s-mail address, we will send you a gift and add you to any future mailings.

Angelica Hart and Zi
KILLER DOLLS
SNAKE DANCE
CHASING GRAVITAS ~ July 2010
angelicahartandzi@yahoo.com
angelicahartandzi.com


KILLER DOLLS and SNAKE DANCE can be purchased at
Champagne Books
http://www.champagnebooks.com/

Writers Are Students Of People

When at a party where there are people I don't know, I am in an element that instigates my imagination. What to say becomes the direct pay-off of how people I meet make me feel or the situation of the moment. It can be like an improv class. Of course it is appropriate but unexpected by most. But does it start out that way? Nope! I sit back and study the group. I ask myself questions. Why are those two together? What is she wearing beneath that dress... what could she possibly be wearing... it is too sheer... could she be... naked? She has to be naked. I know I could tell if she hadn't bikini waxed.

I see a couple. I figure that they are young and in love. So what is the truth of their youth? What does he smell like? What does she? How long did they spend getting ready? What does she taste like when they kiss? Does she taste different in
public then in private? Who is alpha? Would she ask? Beg? Take? Would he? Have they ever danced nude... at night... and in the rain... why... why not? Does he naturally take her hand when people encroach? Does she find protection from him? Does she glow? Does he? But do they glow apart? Is there a kinetic attraction that is felt when they are separated? Could anyone sense their affinity for each other?

One of the greatest quotes that I heard uttered, moved me. "I saw her across the room (at a party) and the only voice I heard was hers. Heard her all night. So I had to meet her." Ten years later they are together. I find myself compelled to understand attraction. I am drawn to that allure.

So for a period of time I am a party voyeur and then I mingle. And try to resolve my questions. While others dance, small-talk, and double-dip their chips, I query. I'll ask the hostess how could she possibly pull that dress off wearing undies? And if I am lucky she'll reply, "You want to pull that dress off... and see?" We'd laugh but she'd tell me. And so the night begins. Asking questions maybe everyone else wanted to ask. Doesn't Max understand his toupee looks anything but natural? Hey bud, your merkin is moving to high ground? Could Wayne have worn a shirt with more wrinkles? Own an iron that works? And does Paula know every old geezer is ogling her blouse's décolleté? Does she know she's nipus erecti? I bet she knows. Go Paula. I'll ask.

Zi

We'd love to hear from anyone interested in what we do. Anyone who emails us at angelicahartandzi@yahoo.com and leaves an s-mail address, we will send you a gift and add you to any future mailings.


Angelica Hart and Zi
KILLER DOLLS
SNAKE DANCE
CHASING GRAVITAS ~ July 2010

Champagne Books
angelicahartandzi.com

The Value Of A Writer's Conference

Recently, I attended part of our RWA chapter Writer's Conference. My DH
and I usually do most of those thing together. He collects promotional
material to review and takes picture. I hate to admit it but the guy is
one sensational photographer. He can catch the best expressions on people.
Never have figured out how he does it. I guess he's just very good.

But - on to the value of the conference. I was presenting a workshop on
digital publishing and comparing it to print publishing. As I
prepared my talk I pondered the best way to begin when an idea
hit. Briefly, I decided to lay out the history of books and publishing
as a beginning, starting with the little monks copying the works of
the Bible and continued to modern day. Even my DH was impressed.

What struck me was the similarity of circumstances. The printing
press eventually introduced mass publications of the printed word to
the world. Today, the internet has introduced that same idea of mass
distribution of words to the digital world.

On Friday the iPad was released to the public so the concept of wireless
communication is pushed along with tremendous speed. Newspapers,
text books, magazines, all things requiring massive amounts of paper,
ink, time and personnel to produce were deminished with the release
of a small, pound and a half object capable of unlimited access to
the world of words.

The thought is staggering. What a fantastic world in which to live!
What else will the future bring? Since my life spans just the radio
for entertainment, the invention of television, space travel, computers,
(and of course I could go on and on) I can only speculate on what's
next. The value of the Conference was, at least for me, a stunning revelation.
What's new is sometimes very old in concept - the mass distribution
of ideas and the words to explain them. The monks started with their
tireless copying words of the Bible, Guttenberg did it with his
printing press and now the people involved in the developement and expansion
of the digital world have become part of the process. Unbelievable if
you spend time thinking about it.

Allison
www.AllisonKnight.com

Walled Gardens: Apple vs. Amazon

I'm going to ask for your forgiveness in advance. I know that the iPad was released this weekend and people must be getting sick of the hype and all the articles about it. Even I'm starting to get a little saturated. In a way it reminds me of the Tiger Woods coverage - enough already!

Anyway, those of you who follow my blog and have read some of my previous articles about the Kindle and other eReaders, know that one of the complaints I've always had about the Kindle was the fact that their eBook format was proprietary. You had to read it on the Kindle (or using Kindle software) or you were SOL. In fact, my latest blog post was about the Kobo eReader and how Wired magazine referred to it as the "Kindle Killer". The article was referring to the Kobo eReaders price vs. the iPad, as they both support the open ePub format (which is the format Champagne books sells on their website).

So it was an ironic albeit unpleasant surprise when I came across this article on CNET - Why Apple's iBooks falls short of Kindle--for now. The article basically states that despite Apple's much hyped iBooks, Apple falls short of Amazon in terms of being able to allow people to consume their content on the device (iPad, Kindle, etc) of their choice. So far Amazon is winning that battle, as you can read Kindle books on the iPad and iPhone via the Kindle app, as well as on your PC or MAC, not to mention the Kindle itself. At the moment the iBooks app only exists on the iPad so if you purchase a book using iBooks and don't have access to your iPad then you are SOL.

Of course to be fair this is exactly the position that Amazon was in when it first launched the Kindle and it is only now, just over 2 years later, that the Kindle enjoys such widespread access.

So coming out of the gate, Amazon has the advantage. It will be interesting to see how Apple responds and adapts to this, particularly regarding eBooks in the ePub format purchased outside of iBooks.

At the end of the day, as eBooks become popular, approaches like the one advocated by Kobobooks - a "device-neutral" approach - will make the most sense. The Kindle is part way there but unless they allow other vendors access to their file format, they've reached their limits. Whereas the iPad is just getting started.

David

Posted by David Boultbee

Space Vixens To Be Published

I am pleased to announce that "Space Vixens" has been accepted for publication. A new twist on man and his dog, Space Vixens pokes its nose into new and exciting places. When private eye Lance Tripod runs into a hot dame in distress named Floozie, the fur begins to fly. A prized artifact has gone missing, and a vivacious syndicate of vixens will stop at nothing to keep Lance from sticking things where they don't belong.

Kerry
www.kmtolan.com

---

Excerpt:
    I hate furries. Combining gene splicing and bad anime - what the hell were they thinking?
    “Blurble”.
    I took a long drag off my smoke and blew rings into the llama’s face across the counter. The guy was new. Obviously. “Mail. Did I get any mail?”
    “Gwark?”
    The trouble with furries was that you never knew which direction the boutique boys started from. Except with chumps like this. Figuring a knuckle sandwich would just get drool on my fist, I turned and carded my way into the office building’s interior. It stank of mildew, and I probably smelled worse from the booze.
    Lance Tripod, Private Dick. That’s what is says on the sign. Says nothing about not having a good case in months. Fishing an ident out of a trench coat that had seen one too many refabricators, I stuck the tab into the door’s rusty slot and pushed my way into the dingy office. Tossing my lid on a pile of bills, I sagged back into the desk chair, not bothering with the lights. Electricity wasn’t cheap on the wheel. Neither was the looker who detached herself from the shadows.
    “Don’t trouble yourself, Mr Tripod,” she murmured in a throaty voice, gesturing with a wicked looking gat.
    I pulled my hand away from the shoulder holster and straightened my tie. Long gams, copper-and-black hair, and breasts you could get lost in. A classy dame with no business here. “What’s your name, doll face?”
    “Floozie…and don’t ask. I ever find the bastard that named me and…” She stopped, as if realizing her lips had started flapping. She sat down on the old chair across from the desk, slipping her piece back into a hip holster. “One can’t be too careful. There’s whiskey in your left drawer. I’ve a nose for such things.”
    “Bet you do, lady,” I replied, rubbing at the black mess that was my hair. She could’ve aired me out. I was getting careless. I wasn’t, however, putting up with pushy broads. “Take a hike.”
    “Excuse me?’
    “Blow, before I give you a good spanking with that piece of yours.”
    Her big puppy dog eyes narrowed. “As much as I might like that, Mr Tripod, lets get down to business. I need your services, and your ship.”
    I pointed the way out.
    “Fine, Mr Tripod. Have it your way.” She stood up and turned with a quick twist of hip.
    “Nice tail,” I murmured.
    “I can hear good too,” she answered before slamming the door after her.
    Burying my smoke in a tray of last night’s sushi, I pulled open the left drawer and hauled out tonight’s liquid feast.
                ~*~
    I woke with a bunch of apes playing “slap the monkey” on my brain, and my mouth tasted like they’d been doing something else too. Groaning, I sat up.
                ~*~
    I opened my eyes to the same chimp wrecking crew doing something unattractive to a chipmunk in my head. They left a nice goose egg on my noggin for my troubles. I stared up at the low hanging air duct plastered with a Betty Crocker pinup…and a fresh dent. This was the captain’s cabin in my ship – the Maltese Tongue. What the hell was I doing here? A steady vibration below the stained carpet told me we were underway.
    This time I rolled out of bed before standing up. Something stank, and it wasn’t just my sweat-soaked shirt. The first place I headed for was the cabin’s bathroom.
                ~*~
    The second lump on my head came from hitting the floor. Hard. My trousers had been yanked down to my ankles. No monkey had done that. Least I hoped not. Pulling up my britches, I lurched into the bathroom and reached behind the toilet for the gun kept there for special occasions like this. Nothing. Pulling open the medicine cabinet, I drank a few ounces of Doctor Daniel’s all-purpose cure and started playing “find the gat”. It wasn’t a big cabin, but then the Maltese Tongue wasn’t a big ship. Used to belong to a high-rolling hooker until she lost a bet. I pulled the choke collar on that memory fast, having bigger fish to fry right now. Empty bottles clinked like a beer blast down at the AA, but no heater. Somebody had done a good job. I glanced at the bottom of my cabin door. That somebody was casting a shadow just outside. The brass knucks in my pants pocket slipped onto my fist with all the familiarity of a dog in heat. I wrenched open the door.
    “Blurble?”
    “Lights out, llama,” I grated, connecting my reinforced haymaker with its snout. The furry hit the back wall, leaving a grease streak as it slid to the floor with its tongue lolling to one side. Should’ve told him that llamas and pinstripe suits don’t mix. I checked the furry for a gun, but only came up with a wad of cocoa leaves. I headed down the hall to the bridge, trying to keep my size ten’s from making any racket on the plasti-steel tiles. It was time to take them for a nice drive up somebody’s caboose.
    And what a caboose it was. She was hunkered over the navigator display, showing me her best assets. It was Floozie. A moment later she was showing me that gat of hers. “Hello, Mr. Tripod. Awake, I see?”
    I edged around the pilot’s chair, watching the dame with one eye while taking a quick look at the screens with another. The wheel was still there, spinning against purple star fields like my head. Floozie hadn’t got very far. “Anything to say before I bust you in the chops, lady?”
    “You can say thank you for the opportunity to make five hundred large ones,” she replied with a toothy grin. “Five hundred grand, Mr. Tripod. Use that brain of yours for a change and think about it.”
    I rubbed the stubble on my jaw. Cabbage like that could shake a lot of things loose in the hock shop. Including this ship. “So how did you get the Tongue out?”
    “Very slowly,” Floozie replied, licking those gorgeous lips of hers in emphasis.