Sheralyn Pratt's Blog, page 18

The Gauntlet is DOWN!

Tonight, while performing my rather undefined duties as a bride's maid, I had a hilarious conversation with several high school friends--people who have known me half my life, or more.

While laughing through tears and eating Texas sheet cake that tasted like "grass" (i.e. mint--FRESH mint, like a mint bush had been thrown into the dough), I was answering questions about the newlyweds and some details about how not to get pedicures before massive hikes because of the bride's experience while hiking with her fiance--including her toenails falling out.

One of my friends said, "Yeah, when you leave in details like that, it's not as romantic."

The other replied, "This is Sheralyn. She couldn't write romance if it killed her."

*GASP*

EXCUSE ME?

I was appalled, but I was the only one at the table who was. They all gave me matter-of-fact-looks that essentially said they agreed: I couldn't write romance.

My own friends? Doubting me? Collectively?

It cannot be!

And yet, it is...

Now I don't usually consider myself a prideful person, but I guess in some regards I am, because I totally want these four women to EAT their words. And in order to do that, I'M GOING TO WRITE A ROMANCE!

And not just any romance--a romance made to order. That's right. I'm taking orders. What kind of clean romance do you want to read? Beauty and the Geek? Best friends? Boy meets girl? Bodyguard? Love in the work place? Marooned on a desert island? Love with a rodeo clown?

Is he hot? Is he not? Is she a snob or a doormat? Throw it out there.

Because I'm very much in the mood for a challenge, and what I'll do is get a consensus of the most popular themes mentioned and create a poll. Whichever theme wins the poll WILL BE WRITTEN.

Then I shall prove that I can indeed write a romance, and that it did not kill me...

City Limits

Just did a signing today at the Layton Seagull and they had Book 3 in stock. Woohoo! Go Seagull. And for those of you who haven't been inside a Seagull lately, they seriously have the nicest employees. I don't know where they find them, but the "chipper" factor is fairly consistent from store to store.

Thanks for having me :)

Ad if you don't have City Limits, I know for sure you can go pick it up at Seagull. Rock on!

A Tour for Wendy

Wendy Paul, author of "101 Gourmet Cupcakes in 10 Minutes" and "101 Cookies for Everyone" wrote to ask about the scene locations in Stalk Lake City. Here's a quick vid--although the quality went to pot once I uploaded it.
Either way, Wendy, I hope it answers your question :)

Work in Progress (WIP): FLUX

Sometimes I'm asked if I write anything besides Rhea. The answer to that is a resounding YES. I love YA and Juvenile fiction when it comes to both reading and writing. To give a sample of one of the many books hiding in my computer, here's the Prologue of a book I have that is closest to being done. This is also the book that took first place at the League of Utah Writers Annual Competition. Right now it's called FLUX, though that may change... who knows.
Hope you enjoy!
FLUX-Prologue

It's a longstanding nightly tradition for me to die. I wake up at 12:08—always 12:08—unable to breathe, my throat caught in an invisible death grip and the hand-me-down shirt I sleep in drenched with sweat. Always.

Within a few seconds I'm able to remind myself that I'm not hogtied and being dragged to the bottom of a river by a kettle bell. If I breathe in, water won't fill my lungs. I'm not drowning. It's only 12:08, just like it is every night.

Sliding from bed, I "borrow" my roommate Candy's digital watch with a backlight and fasten it around my wrist. Outside the window a lone raven sits at the top of the tree line leading to the forested area. Ravens are everywhere around the children's home. They're not supposed to be nocturnal, but this one is. And every night it watches me run.

Years of practice have made me an expert at slipping out the window of my shared room without a whisper of a sound. The cool earth greets my feet like a welcome mat. I can't wear shoes. Bare feet can't be an excuse to slow me down. I change the watch's mode to timer and press "start."

Then I run as if my life depends on it.

I've measured my trail multiple times to make sure it's exactly three miles. My dad is a runner. He can run a mile in five-minutes flat. It's one of the many skills he picked up in the Special Forces. Years ago my uncle called my dad a human Swiss army knife, which offended my dad. He preferred to think of himself as something more formidable and feared than a pocket knife. If he had to be categorized as any type of blade at all, it should at least be something like a seven-inch SEAL knife that he could slide between two ribs and directly into a beating heart for a quick kill.

That's how my dad kills when he respects his prey. If he doesn't respect it—or perhaps even hates it—then he takes a whole different approach altogether.

Two miles in my stomach lurches, trying to empty itself but succeeding only in burning acid trails up my throat. Tears sting my eyes, making it even harder to see in the dark even as I push to go faster. The vision I'd had the first day authorities had brought me to the children's home is still as clear in my mind as it was nine years ago.

One day my dad would find me again and be handed a second chance to kill me. When he did, if I could outrun him to my secret place, somehow I would be safe. If I didn't, I would be dead. Either I would make it, or I wouldn't.

Stumbling across my invisible finish line, I look down at the watch. It reads 15:07 and counting. Might as well just serve myself up on a platter if I can't shave at least another twenty seconds off.

"Congratulations, Hex," I mutter. "You just died."

But just in case the night comes when I am faster than my dad, I get to work on the secret place beneath my feet.

Copyright, Sheralyn Pratt 2010

Love & War

They say you only really understand something when you can describe it to a 6 year old in one breath, using simple terms.
That said, there's a LOT I don't understand.
One thing I know: I hate conflict. I have a black belt in conflict avoidance, I'm pretty sure. I don't know if this is emotionally healthy on some occasions, but it keeps a lot of drama out of my life. Not all, but most.
An additional factor has always played a role in my life and it is only today that I'm realizing what, exactly, that aspect is. And now, since I understand it (I think), I shall venture to describe it in one breath and simple terms: Deliberate, avoidable conflict makes me feel weak and sick, regardless of my involvement or opinion in the "discussion."
When people choose to escalate rather than venture to understand, I get sad. Claiming that makes me sound terribly sensitive, which is not really a top 10 word to describe me, yet there it is. Verbal wars make me feel physically ill, just like some people get woozy at the sight of blood or the crack of bone against bone.
Give me a fist fight any day. At least with physical fighting you see the damage. You know what to treat and how the injury impairs you. With verbal fights there's a veritable spray of pain that you cannot track. Some of the bigger "punches" may register as needing attention, but so many sneak through to harden, warp, sting, undermine, and demean in ways even the recipient may not realize.
"Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me." Yeah, that's a lie. People don't try to commit suicide because someone punched them once. They don't become bigots because of a physical black eye. Words do that to us.
That's my belief, at least. Others may have differing experiences that makes them believe the converse. Between us probably lies the truth. Who knows?
The point is: I don't know... and I wish more people were willing to confess that they don't know either, rather than assuming the worst of another, taking a immovable stance based on limited information, then going to battle.
Then again... just like verbal welfare makes me sick, others need it to feel alive--they don't feel they're doing their part or advancing their cause unless they're sticking it to someone they feel needs to be converted. Those who don't agree with them are somehow automatically un-evolved idiots or unenlightened.
Please.
Berating and condescension are not the answers. Harsh words and demoralizing attacks aren't either. No mob is remembered favorably by history even though they felt righteous at the time when they sought to destroy witches, religions, races, cultures, sects, or anything else under the sun. Conversely, when a minority appeals to the good of a ruling power, change happens fluidly and in a way that doesn't make people cringe. Do men walk around muttering these days about it being silly that women got the right to vote? If so, such men are in a huge un-vocal minority, because most men don't even blink at this right. And was a war fought over it? No. After a few failing approaches, women adjusted their approach, appealed to the high sensibilities of men, and got their way. Today their battle is a paragraph in history books that we really don't pay attention to anymore because it's the status quo. Back in their day, however, the opposition was very real... and they overcame it by being smart, not vicious.
Change of hearts happen every day, and they are expedited with love. They are hampered by venom and thoughtless attacks. Hate polarizes, love unites. That's what I believe. And after a day of seeing what's being posted on Facebook by well-meaning and passionate friends, I just had to get that out there.
Because love, in my mind, includes the ability to look someone in the eye and disagree, but still wish them the best, even if we can't agree on what "best" is.

Musings...

I have to confess that I'm nervous. Totally. I don't get nervous often, but for some reason I am and the feeling isn't fading. All the Rhea books have been out before, so re-releasing them has been a fairly unruffling experience.
But Kay'sVille?

I feel like a first-time author all over again with this book. It's new, it's risky, and it has it's little fingers wrapped around my heart. As a storyteller, all I can do is pray I got it right. No one's read it, except for my editor. That's equally freaky. I like to have a set of sample readers to give me feedback--and I always get awesome feedback that shapes the book in some great way. This time it's just me, the muse, and a keyboard. No feedback.
Can you see why I'm freaked?
It's hard to talk about details unless you've read the book, so just know that I'm looking forward to talking to all those who are the first to finish it. This story isn't the next Rhea mystery so much as it is Kay inserting herself and saying, "Hey. Look, if you're going to keep reading Rhea's books (or understand vague parts in previous books), you should probably know a few things about Rhea. And since she won't tell you out of respect for me, it becomes my job to fill you in. But make no mistake. This doesn't mean I like you. If we met each other on the street we wouldn't talk. We both know that. But you like Rhea, and unless you know a little bit more about her and how she became who she is, the choices she makes in the future won't make much sense to you. So here it is... my story. No fluff, but all the stuff I really wish I could keep secret. But you need to know."
Writing Kay is a lot more vulnerable for me than writing Rhea. Rhea's tougher. More practical. She's emotional, but she has the background of a soul who was raised with love and support, in addition to being taught to see her own value. She has money, family, friends, and a brilliant mind. No matter how beat up she gets, she can only fall so far.
Kay is not so blessed, nor does she have Rhea's resilient shell. Stepping into Kay's shoes leaves me feeling a lot more naked. She has every reason to give up and forget her dreams. She has demons, wounds, fears, and no safety net outside of Rhea. She is miserable at the same time she is driven. In a word, she is: flawed.
I love her for both her brusqueness and vulnerability... and I hope you do too.
That concludes my midnight musings. *Phew* That was oddly cathartic. In this moment, I'm not nervous. We'll see if the feeling comes back. But really, I hope you love all the upcoming books, including City Limits, which I am launching this Saturday at the Fort Union Deseret Book Ladies' Night from 6-8 pm.
See you there!

Reader Question: How do you do a hook kick?

In City of Angels, Rhea takes down a guy in an alley with a well-placed hook kick. One reader asked how a hook kick is done, and here is my reply. Hope you enjoy!

Got Questions?

First off, thank you to all of you who have voted in the Kay'sVille poll on the right (and if you haven't, feel free to do so now). I'm SO excited for that book because it lets readers into more of the world that I see which Rhea keeps hidden. Kay is the one who has to open the door and let us in. And she does.
And for all the people who have furrowed their eyebrows as to why I love Kay so much when she is a character who would HATE me in real life, you'll find out :) And that's all I'm going ...

Paying Homage

I'm one of those writers who uses music to channel my stories, and this time I really have to thank a few songs and artists who helped me pump out Kay'sVille in record time.
Below are the songs that helped me focus on the story that Kay wanted to tell. If you like the songs, you may just like the book. I figure that's a safe way to judge, right?
Either way, thank you Kelly C., P!nk, Nelly, Beyonce, and Kelly R. Feel free to check out their music here...

Book 3 is in the Warehouse!

A heads up: Book 3 is here. The first store that will likely get it is the Fort Union Deseret Book, since I will be signing there 10/2 for Ladies Night.
Can't wait to see it!