Rhobin Lee Courtright's Blog, page 21
March 31, 2012
Night Writers Book Giveaway
Big book prize today at Night Writers! Eight books, one winner, so be sure to enter. Among the prizes you could win are PDF copies of science fiction, paranormal romance, romantic suspense, middle grade, and historical books, all from different authors. You can only enter today.
March 15, 2012
Book Give-away
On the 31st of months with thirty-one days, Night Writers will be giving away pdf format electronic books. You can enter on that day and one lucky reader will walk away with everything! Click the title of this blog to go to the event page and see the books you could win.
February 19, 2012
Excerpt from Protecting Her Own
At the end of the business day Amanda walked to her car. A sense of uneasiness assailed her as Grant emerged from the car parked next to hers.
"I don't want to talk with you," Amanda said, unlocking her car, her movements jerky and uncoordinated with her agitation. She opened the door, but Grant was next to her. He must have run around the back of her car.
"Please, Amanda, just listen."
"You can't say anything I want to hear."
"I know, but your situation has changed, and as hard as you might find it to believe, I want to help you." His hand grabbed the edge of her car door, blocking her entry.
"You're right, I don't believe you. Get out of the way, Grant."
"Come on, Amanda. I only want to help."
"How? Can you build me a new house? Get away from my car and stop causing a scene." She tried to return to the office, but he caught her wrist.
"There is no scene, Amanda unless you make one. There is no one else in the parking lot, and no one on the road will notice anything unusual. I only want to talk to you, and you've refused to answer the messages I've left. And yes, I can help you find the wherewithal to have a new house. I heard Preston rescinded his offer to buy your farm."
She jerked her arm free of his grasp, angered by his persistence. "What? How did you learn that?"
"That's not important," he said. "What is important is that I can offer you good money for it."
She gasped in disbelief, her jaw dropping for a moment before she regained her composure. "You want to purchase my acreage? Over my dead body, Grant!"
Grant frowned. "Be sensible and less emotional. The house is gone, but I know people who are only interested in the land."
"Who? And what's in it for you Grant?"
He looked uncomfortable for a moment, watching the sparse traffic on Highway 31. "I've been offered a percentage of the sale if I can get you to agree to the purchase."
At her prolonged silence, he finally looked at her with a pleading expression. "Rillema Construction has an offer on my land, but it is contingent on the purchase of yours."
She gave him a nasty grin, suddenly enjoying herself. "Sorry, I'm not selling."
"I don't want to talk with you," Amanda said, unlocking her car, her movements jerky and uncoordinated with her agitation. She opened the door, but Grant was next to her. He must have run around the back of her car.
"Please, Amanda, just listen."
"You can't say anything I want to hear."
"I know, but your situation has changed, and as hard as you might find it to believe, I want to help you." His hand grabbed the edge of her car door, blocking her entry.
"You're right, I don't believe you. Get out of the way, Grant."
"Come on, Amanda. I only want to help."
"How? Can you build me a new house? Get away from my car and stop causing a scene." She tried to return to the office, but he caught her wrist.
"There is no scene, Amanda unless you make one. There is no one else in the parking lot, and no one on the road will notice anything unusual. I only want to talk to you, and you've refused to answer the messages I've left. And yes, I can help you find the wherewithal to have a new house. I heard Preston rescinded his offer to buy your farm."
She jerked her arm free of his grasp, angered by his persistence. "What? How did you learn that?"
"That's not important," he said. "What is important is that I can offer you good money for it."
She gasped in disbelief, her jaw dropping for a moment before she regained her composure. "You want to purchase my acreage? Over my dead body, Grant!"
Grant frowned. "Be sensible and less emotional. The house is gone, but I know people who are only interested in the land."
"Who? And what's in it for you Grant?"
He looked uncomfortable for a moment, watching the sparse traffic on Highway 31. "I've been offered a percentage of the sale if I can get you to agree to the purchase."
At her prolonged silence, he finally looked at her with a pleading expression. "Rillema Construction has an offer on my land, but it is contingent on the purchase of yours."
She gave him a nasty grin, suddenly enjoying herself. "Sorry, I'm not selling."
Protecting Her Own
The owner and editor of Champagne Books are giving my romantic suspense novel set in Manistee, Michigan, Stone House Farm, a second release under a new title:
Protecting Her Own
. The believe this is a very good story and perhaps the new title and cover will encourage potential sales. If you haven't read it, I hope you'll give it a try.
January 4, 2012
Excerpt from Legend's Cipher, an anthology
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Bertok sat across the table from three examiners, his hands clasped on the table in front of him, and wondered why he had been summoned to Vincenne University on Acolyte Island, the home of the head bishop of the Holy One's church. Three clerics silently stared at him from the other side of the table. One chair remained empty.
This couldn't be about any immoral activity, could it? Yes, they could find cause, but my carousing has never led to another's harm, has it? Is this a tribunal? The thought of burning briefly terrified him, causing him to quickly regard the other men seated in the room. No, those types of illegal inquisitions stopped generations ago, didn't they? Besides, he knew no secrets, and he tried whenever possible to avoid such awareness.
Bertok compressed his shoulders while he twisted his neck, cracking the bones to relieve his tension. What had he done? A complaint sent to the Bards' Guild at Queen's University could result in expulsion from the guild. That notion shook him. He had a dual calling as both storyteller and musician. What would he do? He loved being a bard; the work suited his wanderlust, and his talents. He didn't want to labor in fields or be beholden to some shopkeeper, or worse, some aristo.
A few inescapable reflections exposed situations where his actions had been less than ethical. These situations arose mostly through mischance or miscalculation. He was not as pure in body and soul as the priests demanded, but surely none of his misdeeds rose to punishable offenses? His only other secret he kept twisted tightly shut. How could they possibly know of that?
His short, well-worn leather jack felt buttoned too tight even if only at the waist, and to unbutton it would be far too casual for whoever was coming to talk to him. Besides, the jack hid stains on his shirt he did not wish to expose, even if the shirt's frayed cuffs escaped the end of his jack's sleeves.
Unlike many bards, I claim no coat string relation to any aristo, and I look like what I am, a powerless itinerant bard—someone with no influence. Perhaps even a worthless sacrifice for some religious goal? He shivered.
The closely woven texture and slight sheen on the three examiners' gray robes of common clerical service, while plain, displayed fine quality. Their cowls, arranged in careful folds around the clerks' necks, probably kept the chill-laden drafts away while Bertok's knees knocked with nervousness and the winter drafts chilling the room. The fireplace's burnt offerings failed to warm the room to more than bearable cold.
His mind returned to his ponderings. Why was I called to the Bishop's School? He had graduated from Queen's College, so if he was to be disciplined for any incorrect language or behavior, would not the oral rhetoric professors of his own school handle the matter? Not the prelate's teaching center? Did they know his secret? With applied effort he prevented himself from unseemly squirming in his seat, but the clasp of his hands grew tighter.
The leaded panes of the tall, arched windows let drab winter light filter into the paneled chamber and made the ancient walnut paneling appear all the darker. He wondered if the prelates preferred such somber surroundings. The click of the latch of the door drew his attention.
His eyes widened, and his mouth dried as His Eminence the Bishop entered. If he didn't know the man's face, he'd have never recognized him. The bishop also wore general clerk's dress rather than the ornately rich robes of his office. Bishop Hedrick settled his ascetic's frame in the empty chair across the table. His gaze settled on Bertok. His eyes were the most innocent blue Bertok had ever seen. The bishop smiled, gentleness lining his face.
"Bard Bertok, it was kind of you to travel so far at my request."
Bertok hesitated, wondering what to reply, but took the safe route. "Your holiness, I am at your service, only curious as to the reason for your request."
The bishop's smile changed his austere expression to one of an ordinary man. "That certainly eases my conscience. Before I embark on my reason for calling you hence, I would like to ask you a few questions."
Bertok nodded his agreement while his stomach boiled in tension.
This couldn't be about any immoral activity, could it? Yes, they could find cause, but my carousing has never led to another's harm, has it? Is this a tribunal? The thought of burning briefly terrified him, causing him to quickly regard the other men seated in the room. No, those types of illegal inquisitions stopped generations ago, didn't they? Besides, he knew no secrets, and he tried whenever possible to avoid such awareness.
Bertok compressed his shoulders while he twisted his neck, cracking the bones to relieve his tension. What had he done? A complaint sent to the Bards' Guild at Queen's University could result in expulsion from the guild. That notion shook him. He had a dual calling as both storyteller and musician. What would he do? He loved being a bard; the work suited his wanderlust, and his talents. He didn't want to labor in fields or be beholden to some shopkeeper, or worse, some aristo.
A few inescapable reflections exposed situations where his actions had been less than ethical. These situations arose mostly through mischance or miscalculation. He was not as pure in body and soul as the priests demanded, but surely none of his misdeeds rose to punishable offenses? His only other secret he kept twisted tightly shut. How could they possibly know of that?
His short, well-worn leather jack felt buttoned too tight even if only at the waist, and to unbutton it would be far too casual for whoever was coming to talk to him. Besides, the jack hid stains on his shirt he did not wish to expose, even if the shirt's frayed cuffs escaped the end of his jack's sleeves.
Unlike many bards, I claim no coat string relation to any aristo, and I look like what I am, a powerless itinerant bard—someone with no influence. Perhaps even a worthless sacrifice for some religious goal? He shivered.
The closely woven texture and slight sheen on the three examiners' gray robes of common clerical service, while plain, displayed fine quality. Their cowls, arranged in careful folds around the clerks' necks, probably kept the chill-laden drafts away while Bertok's knees knocked with nervousness and the winter drafts chilling the room. The fireplace's burnt offerings failed to warm the room to more than bearable cold.
His mind returned to his ponderings. Why was I called to the Bishop's School? He had graduated from Queen's College, so if he was to be disciplined for any incorrect language or behavior, would not the oral rhetoric professors of his own school handle the matter? Not the prelate's teaching center? Did they know his secret? With applied effort he prevented himself from unseemly squirming in his seat, but the clasp of his hands grew tighter.
The leaded panes of the tall, arched windows let drab winter light filter into the paneled chamber and made the ancient walnut paneling appear all the darker. He wondered if the prelates preferred such somber surroundings. The click of the latch of the door drew his attention.
His eyes widened, and his mouth dried as His Eminence the Bishop entered. If he didn't know the man's face, he'd have never recognized him. The bishop also wore general clerk's dress rather than the ornately rich robes of his office. Bishop Hedrick settled his ascetic's frame in the empty chair across the table. His gaze settled on Bertok. His eyes were the most innocent blue Bertok had ever seen. The bishop smiled, gentleness lining his face.
"Bard Bertok, it was kind of you to travel so far at my request."
Bertok hesitated, wondering what to reply, but took the safe route. "Your holiness, I am at your service, only curious as to the reason for your request."
The bishop's smile changed his austere expression to one of an ordinary man. "That certainly eases my conscience. Before I embark on my reason for calling you hence, I would like to ask you a few questions."
Bertok nodded his agreement while his stomach boiled in tension.
December 19, 2011
Writing’s Gifts
This Christmas Eve, with all its promised gifts and with the year’s end soon to urge individuals into introspection, I find myself reflecting on what writing has given me. My ninth-grade teacher would be gratified to know improved grammar is one blessing. To be published one needs to know grammar, plus all the proofing and editing involved demands it. This gift led to a teaching job, a huge gift, but there are many others.Writing gives my imagination free reign; for once the world is mine (insert evil laugh) and I can do with it what I like. Writing gives me a voice. Does that equate to imaginary power, or power through imagination?Having a book published, even one not on the NYT Bestsellers list, gave me innumerable insights. The biggest gift writing bestows is not the celebrity or notoriety some writers receive, but satisfaction. Satisfaction in finishing a work and conquering the struggles that erupt throughout the project. (Don’t you struggle at some point in every writing project?) Satisfaction came when a publisher accepted my manuscript, and those readers who have bought my books seem to enjoy my words! Along with satisfaction are closely related aspects of pleasure, perseverance, and accomplishment.I’ve received more than satisfaction. When I began to recognize my mistakes and learned to correct and improve my work, I learned craft. As I now tell my classes, writing teaches thinking, like following a logical order, and looking at all aspects of a situation to discover both the subtle as well as the obvious choices. I also learned about criticism and rejection, and while difficult to accept, they offer a challenge to do better.Once introduced into the publishing world, another gift emerged -- a community of writers as varied and interesting as the characters found on a library’s bookshelves: some helpful, friendly, and supportive, some spicy with strong opinions, and others quiet and slow to engage. Everyone believes they have a story inside them. (If you think the plural pronoun agreement with indefinite singular antecedent is wrong – check out Merriam Webster’s Ask the Editor – it’s such a relief!) I was determined to write mine. I’m sure many writers have similar feelings, and most likely have discovered other gifts. What is stopping your from writing your story?
Writing's Gifts
This Christmas Eve, with all its promised gifts and with the year's end soon to urge individuals into introspection, I find myself reflecting on what writing has given me. My ninth-grade teacher would be gratified to know improved grammar is one blessing. To be published one needs to know grammar, plus all the proofing and editing involved demands it. This gift led to a teaching job, a huge gift, but there are many others.Writing gives my imagination free reign; for once the world is mine (insert evil laugh) and I can do with it what I like. Writing gives me a voice. Does that equate to imaginary power, or power through imagination?Having a book published, even one not on the NYT Bestsellers list, gave me innumerable insights. The biggest gift writing bestows is not the celebrity or notoriety some writers receive, but satisfaction. Satisfaction in finishing a work and conquering the struggles that erupt throughout the project. (Don't you struggle at some point in every writing project?) Satisfaction came when a publisher accepted my manuscript, and those readers who have bought my books seem to enjoy my words! Along with satisfaction are closely related aspects of pleasure, perseverance, and accomplishment.I've received more than satisfaction. When I began to recognize my mistakes and learned to correct and improve my work, I learned craft. As I now tell my classes, writing teaches thinking, like following a logical order, and looking at all aspects of a situation to discover both the subtle as well as the obvious choices. I also learned about criticism and rejection, and while difficult to accept, they offer a challenge to do better.Once introduced into the publishing world, another gift emerged -- a community of writers as varied and interesting as the characters found on a library's bookshelves: some helpful, friendly, and supportive, some spicy with strong opinions, and others quiet and slow to engage. Everyone believes they have a story inside them. (If you think the plural pronoun agreement with indefinite singular antecedent is wrong – check out Merriam Webster's Ask the Editor – it's such a relief!) I was determined to write mine. I'm sure many writers have similar feelings, and most likely have discovered other gifts. What is stopping your from writing your story?
November 24, 2011
Sharing
Today is my favorite holiday, Thanksgiving. It's about sharing, and although giving is a form of sharing, Thanksgiving doesn't seem so commercial. (However, if I hear one more Black Friday commercial in Broadway's best musical form, I might scream. I love cooking this meal, love sharing it with family and friends. We started yesterday. Bill cleaned. I made two pumpkin pies and an apple pie. (Finally found someone who still sells Spy apples -- best for making pies!) Also made two dozen dinner rolls, for this I tried a new 'quick' recipe. They turned out pretty good. I'll give the kids half of them to take home. They're already wrapped up. Finished off making pumpkin bread, but I screwed that up by putting in some dried apple. Great taste but didn't bake right; so I'll try again next year.
We got up relatively early and finished cleaning. (One thing about entertaining -- at least the house gets cleaned!) I put the turkey in the roaster, and the dressing in the crockpot. That's another new recipe I tried, and it turned out very good. Opps! Just burned the potatoes, How did that happen? I just checked them! I guess we'll have to have instant, and I'm using a dressed-up canned gravy this year. The soup pot is already simmering for the turkey bones. Only family coming today, the last guest just called and they're sick. So food is warming, the candles already lighted, dinner is at 3:00, gave one pie away, kitchen is clean until after dinner, I've had neither breakfast or lunch, so I'm ready to eat!
Happy Thanksgiving!
We got up relatively early and finished cleaning. (One thing about entertaining -- at least the house gets cleaned!) I put the turkey in the roaster, and the dressing in the crockpot. That's another new recipe I tried, and it turned out very good. Opps! Just burned the potatoes, How did that happen? I just checked them! I guess we'll have to have instant, and I'm using a dressed-up canned gravy this year. The soup pot is already simmering for the turkey bones. Only family coming today, the last guest just called and they're sick. So food is warming, the candles already lighted, dinner is at 3:00, gave one pie away, kitchen is clean until after dinner, I've had neither breakfast or lunch, so I'm ready to eat!
Happy Thanksgiving!
November 3, 2011
Memorable Characters
No matter how many stories I read or write, a few characters never leave my soul. Matter of fact, they sometimes seem to haunt me. I first read Elizabeth Bennet's (yes, another Pride and Prejudice fan) in tenth grade, but I've revisited her often, like twenty plus re-readings and I never miss a movie. The new books carrying her story, or her sisters' stories, forward and other plot and setting machinations, do not interest me. Other readers, I know, don't care about her so much, but I'm certain they have one character who they always remember or one who plays a part in their imagination, dreams, or subconscious; for many it might be Harry Potter stars in this role.
Who invited you? Get out of my mind.Many other character's haunt my subconscious, popping out at the strangest moments, but usually when I'm taking a long walk. It's not only good characters, either, for I often find coercive, mean and twisted characters, whose behavior I found reprehensible in a story, pop into my mind. Other times a character from an otherwise unremarkable story is so strong they break ground and plant themselves in my imagination.
What is this? Some sort of psychological archetype trick of the mind? If that is the case, I'm sure everyone has different characters hopping around in their cerebral cortex, but isn't it rather interesting who shows up?
The trick, of course, for writers is to make sure those characters don't show up in one of their own books. Which is another interesting phenomenon, because often my book characters show up in my brain long before they do a book.
How about other readers? Do you have similar occurrences?
Who invited you? Get out of my mind.Many other character's haunt my subconscious, popping out at the strangest moments, but usually when I'm taking a long walk. It's not only good characters, either, for I often find coercive, mean and twisted characters, whose behavior I found reprehensible in a story, pop into my mind. Other times a character from an otherwise unremarkable story is so strong they break ground and plant themselves in my imagination.What is this? Some sort of psychological archetype trick of the mind? If that is the case, I'm sure everyone has different characters hopping around in their cerebral cortex, but isn't it rather interesting who shows up?
The trick, of course, for writers is to make sure those characters don't show up in one of their own books. Which is another interesting phenomenon, because often my book characters show up in my brain long before they do a book.
How about other readers? Do you have similar occurrences?
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