Edward Hoornaert's Blog, page 57

Over and Over and Over #MFRW

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For week 25 of the Marketing for Romance Writers blog hop, the prompt is:

Favorite Books to Read

[image error]I’m a re-reader.  That means if I like a book, I’ll it more than once.  If I really, really like it, I’ll read it a dozen or more times.  My record is for Dune, by Frank Herbert, which I read somewhere over thirty times.  I suppose that makes it my favorite . . . but there have been so many books in the meantime!

Here are a few of them.  By the very nature of often re-read books, none of them are terribly recent.

Most of the science fiction books of Jack Vance, such as Trullion: Alastor 2262 , Blue World , and the Lyonesse trilogy.
The romances of Kathleen Gilles Seidel, such as Again , The Same Last Name , and A Risk Worth Taking .  Some are out of print, which is a shame.
The five books in Elizabeth Moon’s Vatta’s War space opera series, which starts with Trading in Danger and then Marque and Reprisal . I’m re-reading this series now.
A few of Georgette Heyer’s historical novels, such as Cotillion , The Unknown Ajax , and Sprig Muslim .
[image error] Of my own books, I’m particularly proud of The Trial of Tompa Lee , The Guardian Angel of Farflung Station , and Newborn (which is a finalist for a 2017 RONE Award).

What about you?  What are some of your favorite reads?

Click here to check out the cool romance writers taking part in this blog hop.  Maybe you can pick up a few new favorites of your own.

Effing Feline remembers dad

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Fart-Fueled Flying Feline, Effing for short, writes the Weekend Writing Warrior / Sunday Snippet posts on Mr. V’s behalf. Click the pic for info.

I, Effing Feline, am taking a break from improving improvements to the English language, but I promise I’ll return to the topic.  Instead, I want to dedicate today’s post to the best cat-goned cat I ever met: Tom.  My dad.

Sniff.  Dear old dad. He went out like a true hero, like a true CAT, taking down seven — no, it was actually eleven! — Rottweilers singlepawedly, after they dared to bark at my mom.  Go for the nose, he always told me as he flexed his claws. Such a brave, heroic puss!

Today, another snippet from Mr V’s WIP, Secrets of Love and War. Las week we saw how pilot Norse Malstrom glimpsed a woman just before his bomber crashed.  Today we see the same scene from the POV of the heroine, Cynthia O’Connor, who is searching for her clan sister, Kaushelle, after getting separated during the bombing.

By the time Cynthia reached the outlook high over the foot of Twisted Lizard Lagoon, her palms were scraped bloody and her chest heaved — not from exertion, but from fear.  She cupped her hands around her mouth and yelled, “Kaushelle!”

The girl was frightened by sounds, by new situations, by strangers.  Poor, lost Kaushelle.  Cynthia turned, shoulders slumped and eyes burning—and then she screamed.

A Terran bomber, trailing smoke, thundered over Twisted Lizard Lagoon toward her.  Through its shattered windscreen, she glimpsed a robot’s head, or a man wearing a fearsome helmet.  The bomber dropped a dark cylinder into the lagoon Cynthia loved so much.

As the bomber roared past like a nightmare, something—A bomb? Wind from the bomber’s flight?—blew her off the pinnacle as though she were a dry leaf.

Effing Feline here again.  Thinking about dad and those sixteen — no, I’m sure it was thirty-four — Rottweilers, I can’t continue typing.  I have to go drown my sorrows about dad in the catnip patch.

Be sure to visit the other Weekend Writing Warriors and Snippet Sunday posts.

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Boring food? #MFRW

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For week 24 of the Marketing for Romance Writers blog hop, the prompt is:

If I could eat ONE last meal

What the heck?  Have I been condemned to death without even knowing it? I suppose if it’s my last meal it should be something with tons of butter and eggs and artery-clogging foods.

Or maybe, since this blog hop is for romance writers, my meal should be something like this one from the classic movie, Tom Jones.  If you aren’t familiar with it, it’s the epitome of food as seduction!

Frankly, I can’t match that.

We’re going out to eat tonight because it’s my birthday. (I’m 39. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.) Where did I choose to go?  A deli sandwich shop with a salad bar. Pretty boring, eh?  Sorry, folks — the interesting stuff happens in my head and in my books, not in my real life.

What about you? Surely you can dream up a more interesting meal than mine.  Click here to check out the cool romance writers taking part in this blog hop.

Darby’s touch #MWTease

This is the Midweek Tease blog hop, run by Angelica Dawson.  Writers post teasers about their newest release, or their work-in-progress, or their backlist.

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I’m posting again from my near-future romance, Newborn. In previous teases, you’ve met Jo Beaverpaw, who’s been programmed to assassinate her alien world’s most wanted fugitive. But after an accidental fall, she wakes up in hospital, where’s she guarded by Darby Lapierre, her target’s bodyguard. Jo was born to kill, not love, so her programming tells her little about everyday life.

I’m jumping around a bit. Here’s what happens right after the tease from two weeks ago.  That one ended with “As he reached me, my hospital gown fluttered to the carpet.”.

“Josette, no!”

Startled by the urgency in Darby’s shout, I turned too fast and nearly fell. Only his strong hands, one on my shoulder and one at my waist, kept me from crumpling into a dizzy, pain-sodden heap.

The horrified expression on his face made me cringe. My body was ugly, too ugly for him to look at. He stared over my head to avoid seeing my repulsive flesh.

“Jesus,” he muttered.

“What?” I held my splinted arm over my chest. My cringe deepened until I was bent at the waist. “What?”

“Josette, you can’t just undress in front of a man like that.”

Other people—everyone else—would’ve known not to commit the horrible sin of undressing where a man could see. Not me, though. Not me.

My legs gave out and I would’ve fallen if not for his help. Instead of collapsing, I sank gradually into a crouch that strained my legs and pinpointed the exact spot where each was broken. My belly contracted, forcing a sound up and out of my mouth. A sob. I hated hated hated the feel of it, yet I did it again. Then again.

I didn’t belong here. My head lunged and whirled. Deep on the inside, my legs hurt. I shouldn’t have walked on them, couldn’t walk any more, and I was farther from my Destiny than when I was born. This agony was what utter failure felt like.

Darby shuffled his feet as though uncertain whether to go left or right. His black shoes were shined to a high gloss that reflected my long hair, which fell forward, veiling my humiliation.

He crouched beside me. “There, there.”

The English words made no sense to me. My face was wet with tears, and that made no sense, either. When Darby let go of me, I tottered, yelped and fell against him, knocking him to a sitting position with me on top as though embracing him. I would’ve fallen to the floor if he hadn’t put his arms around me.

I gasped. His touch felt warm and alive and…and something. I waited, hoping my brain would supply a word. After a truculent pause, it did.

Arousal. Darby’s touch aroused me.

I waited for the dizziness to slow, then carefully straightened and lifted my head to peer at his arms in wonderment.

Click here to view teasers from other great writers exercising their powers to tease you.

Newborn

She was born to kill. Not love.

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Jo Beaverpaw is born fully dressed, well-armed, and impatient to tackle her Destiny. Namely, killing her alien nation’s most wanted fugitive. Her programmers want her to live a few hours, kill, then die.

But something goes wrong.

Darby Lapierre has the thankless task of protecting Jo’s target while the woman heals from gunshot wounds. It’s a hard job, but not impossible for a skillful bodyguard like Darby.

Until, that is, Jo shows up at the private hospital after an accident. Beautiful, naive, young Jo knows nothing about life and love, and wants Darby to teach her. Just until she’s well enough to attack her Destiny, of course.

And then Darby will be in her way . . . .

.

Effing Feline improves English

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Fart-Fueled Flying Feline, Effing for short, writes the Weekend Writing Warrior / Sunday Snippet posts on Mr. V’s behalf. Click the pic for info.

I, Effing Feline, decreed last week that CATastrophe should become DOGtastrophe. The world listened — of course! A Google search yields 2,680 results — and if you don’t believe me, Google it yourself. Building on my success, I hereby decree that:

cataclysm is now dogaclysm
catatonic is now dogatonic
caterwaul is now doggerwaul

Expect more improvements to the English language next week.

Today, another snippet from Mr V’s WIP, Secrets of Love and War. We’ve seen the devastation of war from the POV of Cynthia O’Connor, a human resident of an alien world, and last week we met the pilot of one of the Terran bombers.

As it turns out, Norse is the only pilot in the suicide mission to reach the planet’s surface. Here’s how his “successful” bombing run ends.

Norse tried to pull up over the rim of the gorge, but the crippled ship didn’t respond.  He was nearly at tree level now, and the scenery flew past in an end-of-life blur. As he dropped the last bomb, one thing stood out . . . one person.

A wide-eyed woman stood on a rocky bluff overlooking the lake.  He hoped she wouldn’t get caught in the blast; really hoped the last thing he ever saw wasn’t the face of an innocent woman he’d killed.

By the time that thought formed he was past her, hurtling toward a wall of trees at the end of the gorge. No time for regret, or even one last memory of his parents and siblings back on the Faeroes. Trees, low-tech trees, brought him down more effectively than any of the Rixie’s fancy weaponry.

Effing Feline here again. Can you guess who that lone woman is? And does this qualify as a “meet cute?”

Mr V points out that very few words begin with dog-, which is, of course, appropriate. One that does is dogma, and that word can remain. You must admit, it’s a bitch of a word.

Be sure to visit the other Weekend Writing Warriors and Snippet Sunday posts.

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In case you missed it, weekend warrior Cara Bristol wrote an interesting series about her experiences using ads to generate downloads for her free books. There’s a lot of nitty-gritty information here.

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3

SFR Brigade Presents — Don’t say what you mean

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Welcome to the Science Fiction Romance Brigade’s showcase. Once a month, the brigade’s authors highlight snippets from new works, WIPs, cover reveals or other fun things.

Today I’m going to talk about something that’s a great way to add depth to conversation. Namely, avoid having characters say exactly what they mean.

Don’t get me wrong: in real life, people often say what they mean. “Pass the salt” probably means the roast was underspiced . . .

. . . but it could also be a way of interrupting an argument.

“We’re going to crash!” probably means an asteroid looms in front of the spaceship . . .

. . . but it could also mark the moment when a character’s fears overwhelm them.

“You don’t scare me, punk,” could be yet another example of the hackneyed, trite, tiresome, tedious, cliched, overused and overdone schoolyard bluster Hollywood has convinced us heroes are supposed to display at all times, instead of acting like believable people . . .

. . . but it could also be a desperate attempt to stall for time until the redoubtable heroine can sneak up on the bad guy. Or maybe it’s a panicky attempt to convince himself he isn’t afraid of the punk.

Ahem. You now my opinion of so-called heroes who verbally strut like peacocks to show that they’re fearless. I was about to add “or heroines” to this sentence, but authors tend to be more imaginative about their women. It’s no accident that it’s a boy, not a girl, who gets his tongue stuck to the metal pole in A Christmas Story.

But I digress.  The point is, dialogue is richer if it hints at subtext; that’s the stuff in italics above. Indirect dialogue often characterizes the early stages of romance, as in this snippet from my work in progress. The hero, Norse, is a plain speaker but in the face of the heroine’s uncertainty about her feelings, even he falters at one point.  Notice how the heroine, Cynthia, dances around saying what she actually means:

“With him injured in the back,”  Norse said, “this maybe be an odd moment for me to admit for the first time that I love you.”

“True.  You’d probably make me crash.”

“We’ll probably crash anyway.  Slow down.”

Cynthia did, but only a little.  The forest thinned on either side of the road, giving way to low, nondescript shrubs.  “Love?” she said.

“Well, uh, yeah.”

Her mouth pinched into lemon-overdose expression.  “Sounds to me like that word tastes awfully bad to you.”

“I don’t say it often.  But when I do . . . Cynthia, I mean it.”

She said nothing for several minutes.  Her driving slowed.  Either she was far enough from the explosion to relax, or it was growing too dark to speed, or she felt her cargo — the injured alien in the back seat — was too precious to risk.

“Okay,” she said.

“That’s it?” he said with a chuckle as he quoted her words back to her.  “’That’s you’re only response?’”

“I’ve never said that word, so don’t expect too much of me, okay?”

“I find that hard to believe.  Never?”

“Well, I’ve said it to my dog.  Does that count?”

If the characters simply said what they meant, it could’ve been “I love you,” followed by “I don’t know how I feel yet.”  And sometimes that’s perfect. Other times, though, you may want to show more than just the bald words. What else can we learn from the subtext.

The hero is brash; the heroine, guarded
The hero is quick to make up her mind; the heroine, afraid to commit herself even though we suspect she does love him.
The hero is awkward in that he chose a lousy time — the middle of a car chase — to proclaim his feelings.

See also the following ad, which plays around with the idea of what would happen if people on a first date said what they really meant.

Keep Your Nose to the Keyboard #MFRW

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For week 23 of the Marketing for Romance Writers blog hop, the prompt is:

Word Counts Matter. How much? How often?

I’m a numbers person. Back in school, I did pretty well on standardized tests of verbal skills — but much better in number skills.  It’s no surprise, then, that I create several spreadsheets for each WIP. One spreadsheet helps me keep track of my daily word counts and spurs me to write more. Another tracks information about each chapter.

I’m almost ashamed to show you this example from my current WIP, Secrets of Love and War, because my word counts have been so weak, but … what the heck.  Promise you won’t think less of me?

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You’ll notice that there are some days where I write nothing. Listing those days in black and white shames me, even though I’m the only one to see them (usually).

It’s kind of like Weight Watchers. The more honest you are ajbout writing down your daily totals, the most weight you’ll lose . . . or books you’ll write.

What about you? Do you keep track of word counts? Does it help you keep your nose to the keyboard?

Click here to enter your link and/or check out the cool romance writers taking part in this blog hop.

I Was Born #MWTease

This is the Midweek Tease blog hop, run by Angelica Dawson.  Writers post teasers about their newest release, or their work-in-progress, or their backlist.

Last week I chose a selection titled My Hospital Gown Fluttered to the Ground  from Newborn, a science fiction romance. Here is the very opening of the book.

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I was born.

One moment I didn’t exist and never had existed and then, blink, I stood in a clearing, fully dressed, well-armed, and impatient to tackle my Destiny.

Like a magnet seeking north, I strode toward Destiny, downhill and to my left—baby’s first step—and tripped. Rising slowly, I stretched my arms out for balance against the world’s unexpected hazards.

“Careful,” I whispered—baby’s first word, spoken in a creamy soprano that soothed my ears. I looked around, which I should’ve done before taking a step. How could I kill if I couldn’t even walk?

I stood on a slab of granite underlying a small clearing surrounded by a forbidding wall of underbrush. A jailbreak, then, would be the first test of my worthiness for glory. The granite was craggy, a miniature mountain, so I crept up its peak. Pleased with my strength and agility, I stood there like a totem pole, one-point-seven meters above my birthplace.

Green-grey light revealed a hushed immensity. Except for the clearing over the slab, evergreen branches formed an impenetrable ceiling. Starved of sunlight, the ground beyond the clearing supported few shrubs, but fallen logs and boulders would make leaping over my jail walls perilous.

To my left, however, was a patch of flatness. Could I leap the bushes and land there? It would be tricky; maybe impossible. The sniper rifle over my shoulder could throw me off balance. Even if it didn’t, was this body capable of such acrobatics?

Destiny insisted I try. Back up four paces, crouch. So far so good. After that it got dangerous, but I didn’t hesitate. I broke into a sprint, thrust upward, and curled into a ball.

And it worked! I soared over the jail walls. Angry at my escape, a branch spanked my bottom.

I stole my opening line from a famous book by a famous author. Any of you know what/who it is?

Click here to view teasers from other great writers trying their hardest to tease you.

Newborn

She was born to kill. Not love.

[image error]Jo Beaverpaw is born fully grown, well-armed, and impatient to tackle her Destiny … killing her alien nation’s most wanted fugitive. Her life is pre-programmed and straightforward – until she meets the sexy bodyguard of her intended target.

What if Schwarzenegger’s robot assassin in the original Terminator had been a bad-assed (yet petite) female?  To find out, read Newborn.

Get Social blog hop #getsocial17

 

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Blogs are social media, and that means we socialize with each other. So join the crowd here at the GET SOCIAL Blogger Event between June 4 – 17 to meet some new people.

Introductions are in order, so:

Who am I?

I’m a writer named Ed Hoornaert. Don’t let all those Flemish vowels scare you, because the last name is easy to say: hor-nert, like Little Jack with a ‘T’ on the end. I currently live in Tucson, Arizona, though I’ve also lived in Vancouver, Chicago, Nelson, Gilford Island, Clearwater, and Avola, the last five places being in British Columbia, Canada.

[image error]What else is worth knowing about me?  Well, I’m a certifiable Harlequin hero, having inspired N.Y. Times bestseller Vicki Lewis Thompson to write her Rita Award finalist Mr. Valentine. I started out writing romances for Silhouette Books, but these days I concentrate on science fiction romance.

In addition to novelist, I’ve been a teacher, principal, technical writer, salesman, janitor, and symphonic oboist. I’ve been married to my high school sweetheart for umpteen million years. We have three sons, a daughter, a mutt, and the galaxy’s most adorable grandson — and soon (next month) it will be TWO grandsons. Woohoo!

What do I write?

Here’s a taste of my most recent science fiction romance, Newborn.

[image error] Newborn

She was born to kill. Not love.

Jo Beaverpaw is born fully grown, well-armed, and impatient to tackle her Destiny … which is to kill her alien nation’s most wanted fugitive. Her life is pre-programmed and straightforward – until she meets the sexy bodyguard of her intended target.

What if Schwarzenegger’s robot assassin in the original Terminator had been a bad-assed (yet petite) female?  Find out in Newborn.

Now that we’ve been introduced,

say hello in a comment

or join the hop / visit another person.

 

 

Effing Feline dislikes catastrophes

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Fart-Fueled Flying Feline, Effing for short, writes the Weekend Writing Warrior / Sunday Snippet posts on Mr. V’s behalf. Click the pic for info.

I, Effing Feline, resent all the negative words that begin with CAT, like CATastrophe. How dare you humans conflate puddy tats with disaster!

I propose a long overdue change.  Henceforth, CATastrophe, shall be DOGtastrophe. I expect all of you to implement this change immediately, using search-and-replace to correct this word in all your manuscripts.

In previous snippets from Mr V’s Secrets of Love and War, we’ve seen the devastation of war from the POV of Cynthia O’Connor, a human resident of an alien world. Now we switch to the other side of war — the POV of a heroic pilot of a one-man bomber attacking the ancient city.

The planet loomed below Flight Colonel Norse Malstrom like the maw of a greedy alien god, eager to chew his meat and spit out his bones. He welcomed a shiver of fear — only crazies felt no fear before battle — because fear proved he was still alive.

He hoped against hope that fear wouldn’t addle any of his squad’s overeager recruits. Unlike them, he intended to survive this suicide mission. Unlike them, he might. Then all charges would be dropped, he’d be a free man again, and he could return to sniffing the flowers.

Down below, sixteen pinpricks of light marked Alpha Squad’s entry into the planet’s atmosphere. “Beta Squad, get ready,” Norse said into the microphone in his face mask. “Ten seconds.  Nine … eight … seven –”

Unfortunately, one of his ill-trained sacrificial lambs jumped the gun.

Effing Feline here again. Made those changes yet?

Be sure to visit the other Weekend Writing Warriors and Snippet Sunday posts.