Jennifer Thomson's Blog, page 19

There's somebody outside the door...Introducing Don't Come for Me (out May 26th)

THERE'S SOMEONE AT THE DOOR...

Crime thriller, Don't Come for Me is based on something that's probably happened to us all.

You're alone at night, in the bathroom when you hear a noise outside the door.

And there's this tiny part of you, the primaeval part of you that thinks there's someone outside that door.



SOMEONE WAITINGTO GRAB YOU
SOMEONE WAITINGTO ROB YOUR HOUSE
In almost every case, there will be nobody outside that door. Or, it'll be your cat/dog who's knocked down some furniture.

But, what if someone is out there?What do they want?Who are they?
That's how the idea for Don't Come For Me came about.

You can find out what's outside Nancy Kerr's door, by reading Don't Come for Me.

Released May 26th, 2015 from Limitless Publishing (Book 3 in the Crime Files)




Check out the other books in the Crime File series

An Excerpt from revenge thriller Hell To Pay - Crime Files Book 1

PROLOGUE

"How deep down do we need to go?"

He can see her plump silhouette in the torchlight and imagine her tight, frightened face as she speaks.

"How the fuck do I know, Maureen? It’s no like I’ve done this before."

He instantly regrets biting her head off, but he doesn’t feel well: the sweat’s coming off him in waves and his heart’s beating so fast a heart attack is a distinct possibility. The last one had very near finished him off.

"You said you knew what you were doing, Willie."

She left the part she always got to about him not having a clue hanging in the air, but he knew it was there. It was always bloody there. He’d spent the last forty-five years pretending not to notice the tone that spoke of umpteen disappointments and things he'd done wrong.

He carries on digging. His back’s buggered, but he needs to keep on filling the spade with dirt and then dumping it to one side before it starts to get light and the neighbors start asking questions. He’ll take the soil to the dump later. Much later. The way things were going; he’d need to sleep for a week first.

The flashlight Maureen’s holding starts to dip; her hands must be cold (she always had bad circulation – there was a fancy medical term for it, but he could never remember it). It occurs to him that she might be shaking with fear and he knows he should tell her that everything’s going to be all right, so he stops for a moment, glad of the rest and props his body against the muddy shovel, wiping a dirty hand across his sweaty brow.

"We’re doing the right thing here. You know that, hen. If the police find it, it’s an automatic five years. He won’t last that long in prison. Not at one long stretch. You know that. He’s too damn soft."

In the darkness, he hears her crying. "How did it come to this? Where did we go wrong?"

As he resumes digging, the crunch of the spade on the soil drowns out the sound of her tears.

Two Days Later…

"You know, Nancy, it takes more muscles to frown than it does to smile."

A workmate pointed that out and got a two-fingered gesture in return.

Today had been a right bitch of a day, frowned Nancynot giving a monkey’s whether it gave her wrinkles. All she wanted to do now was curl up on her parent’s couch; hands curled around a bowl of mum’s homemade lentil soup, with butterbeans the size of canoes and listen to Mum’s latest gossip, as Dad snorted from behind his book.

The prospect of going home, made her want to punch someone. Michael was being a right moody bastard these days and she wanted to avoid him and his soulless flat in Glasgow’s West End that she’d stupidly agreed to move into. If he plonked down one more coaster, and warned her once more not to mark his Charles Rennie Mackintosh coffee table, she was going to turn into the Hulk and smash him over the bloody skull with it.

She pulled up outside the house, relaxing as she took in the view. Little lanterns glowed in the windows and the Christmas tree (a real one, not one of those ‘plastic mutants’ as her mum called them) was the usual grand affair with twinkling lights and enough tinsel to wrap around the whole of Glasgow. Perched on top was the fairy she’d made when she was six-years-old; the poor thing was lopsided with a grin that was more troll than fairy, but her mum always insisted on placing it on the tree every year along with the Shug's star. He’d made it when he was seven; the last time he’d made his parents proud.

She trotted up the short gravel path, surprised to find the door ajar. Her parents weren’t usually that careless. No one left their doors open in Glasgow, not unless they wanted their house to get burgled. There were too many thieving scumbags around. She knew that because her brother was one of them, what they called a ‘career thief.’

As she strolled down the short hall, she heard drawers being pulled open and cupboard doors being slammed and raised her eyes to the ceiling. Whoop-de-do, just in time for her parents to have one of their, "I don’t know where it is, you saw it last" type arguments. That’s all she needed, when she’d come here for some peace and quiet, not their bickering.

But, she couldn’t hear any voices. And something else struck her as odd. She can’t hear the TV either; usually it was blaring away as her parents watched the latest TV crime drama.

Something wasn’t right.

She wanted to leave, to get back in her car and drive. But that was ridiculous. This was her home. Where she’d always been safe.

"Mum, Dad," she shouted.

She expected them to appear at any moment and start arguing with one another about who left the front door open.

She took a few more steps into the living room and walked straight into hell…

Chapter 1

I’m cold, colder than I’ve ever been in my entire life and I don’t know why. Slowly, I open my eyes, tentatively at first because even opening them a fraction feels like someone's shoving red-hot pins into them. The light is so bright.

What’s with the light anyway?

Has Michael wandered in, blootered on some poncy new beer and left the light on, after collapsing in a heap onto the bed?  I’ll brain him if he has. I’m no good to anyone when I don’t get my eight hours.

Pulling myself up in bed, I reach out my arm to nudge him awake so I can give him a right mouthful. My hand finds empty space.

Where is he?

My eyes sting as I prise them open – it’s as though there's been an accident with false lashes and I've glued my eyelashes together - and that’s when I realise I’m not in our flat. The reason I’m freezing is because I’m wearing a tracing paper thin hospital gown: the kind that shows off your backside when you’re being whisked off to x-ray.

A tidal wave of panic hits me and I jerk into full consciousness.
What’s happened to me?
I try to remember, but my brain’s all bunged up as if the top of my head's been removed and the cavity filled with cotton wool.
My arms are bandaged up. Have I been in an accident?  If I have, I don’t remember. Maybe I hit my head.


I take in my surroundings. If I’m in hospital, it’s no ordinary one. For one thing, my room’s more like a cell. There’s a bed and a table bolted to the floor, but no personal stuff: photos, or cards, or stuffed animals from people wishing me well. Does anyone even know I’m here?


I grope for a call button to get a nurse, but there isn’t one. What the hell? This place is a prison.


Staggering out of bed, I fight the wave of nausea and dizziness that make me want to yell at the world to stop moving because I want to get off the carousel. The tile floor is stone cold and there are no slippers by the bed. My feet are ice blocks. Why don’t I have any socks or tights on? 


Before I reach the door, there's a jingle of keys, then a key scrapes in the lock. Holding my breath, I brace myself for what’s coming.


A woman I don’t recognize with brown hair tied back in a ponytail appears. She’s dressed in a nurse’s uniform and there’s a small smile playing on the edge of her lips.
"Good, you’re awake, Nancy."
She sounds pleased, as if we’re bosom buddies, when I’ve never seen her before in my life.
"Where am I?"
My voice comes out as a rasp as though my throat’s been sandpapered down.

The nurse puts a hand on my shoulder. "Let’s get you back into bed, Nancy."
I do as she says. I’m worried if I don’t lie back, I’ll faint.
"You’re in Parkview Hospital," she says, as she fixes the pillows so I can sit upright.
I know all the hospitals in Glasgow, but I haven’t heard of that one. I ask her what kind of hospital it is and she tells me it’s a psychiatric facility. The reason I haven’t heard of it, is because they don’t publicize it. Perhaps because it’s full of nutters they want to keep away from society. The prospect terrifies me because that would mean they must think I’m cuckoo. Why else would I be here? 


I suck in my breath. When I ask her if this is a nut house, she presses her lips tightly together as she tells me no one refers to psychiatric hospitals in that way any more. Suitably chastised, I mumble an apology not because I think one’s needed, but because she’s the one with the keys.


"Why am I here?"
I’m dreading the answer, but I need to know. I don’t feel any different. Surely if I’d lost my mind, I'd know.
"You had a breakdown."
The way she says it, she could be talking about the weather.
She asks me if I want anything and I tell her a pair of proper pajamas, a dressing gown and slippers would be nice because I’m an ice block. If she gets in touch with Mum, she’ll bring me in some stuff.


Her smile’s still there, but breaks down around the corners of her mouth. There’s something she’s not telling me, because she’s worried how I’ll react. There’s fear in her eyes. I notice she’s wearing a lucky heather brooch, the same one I got for Mum. I’m staring at it as she tells me she’s going to fetch a doctor, when a memory stirs inside me and no matter how hard I try to push it away, someone’s taken their finger out the dyke and the water’s rushing in.


Blood, blood everywhere. Dad’s slumped in his favorite armchair, head bent forward as if in prayer (he never prayed a day in his life); a single bullet hole in his head. I know it’s him, even although his face has been beaten to a pulp: his blood staining the fireside rug my mum was so fond of. Even in death, my dad has a presence. He fills a room with the sheer weight of his personality. Discarded nearby is the baseball bat they used on him. It’s covered in blood and something sticky and dark brown, resembling raw mince.

All material is copyright of the author Jenny Thomson (C) 2013



RELEASED APRIL 28TH FROM LIMITLESS PUBLISHING 


(Available now on pre-order) 

Introducing the Crime Files

COVER REVEAL - I'm really excited to announce that Limitless Publishing will be bringing out three of my books over the next few months. 
Hell To Pay will be published on April 28th and Throwaways will be out on May 12th. The publication date for the third, Don't Come for Me, is still to be announced.
The books were formerly known as the Die Hard for Girls series (although half the readers were men) and I'd like to thank everybody who read both books and who took the time to review them. I really appreciate it.
Both books are being relaunched as the Crime Files.  

Check out the covers. What do you think? 

John Steinbeck reviews the reviewers

This is a bit naughty, but I like it:) 





"Unless a reviewer has the courage to give you unqualified praise, I say ignore the bastard." - John Steinbeck 

Write your own Walking Dead

Get your teeth into writing a zombie novel

I never expected to be able to write a zombie novel. I thought horror was best left to three of my favourite authors – Shaun Hutson, James Herbert and Graeme Masterton.

Then this image came into my head of a couple lying in bed when there’s a knock at the door. One of them pads down the hall, opens the door and finds his friend Archie standing there. Archie looks like he’s been mugged. Then they notice that his insides are dripping out…

And so The Restless Dead was born. So called because the zombies are dead and a bastard to kill (a Glasgow phrase for difficult).

Along the way I’ve learnt a few things -

1. Don’t concentrate on too many people’s stories.
This is a big mistake. Too many characters and too many stories distance the reader from the story you are trying to tell. You want to being everybody into the world you've created. 

2. Respect the genre. 
When it’s a genre that people are well acquainted with like zombies, you need to stick to the rules. By all means push the limits. I recently read a book by a well known author who gave one of his zombies the gift of thought. Bad enough, but he also gave them the cloak of invisibility. I threw that book across the room in a hissy fit. 

3. Make your characters distinctive.
People should know who’s speaking even without speech tags. This is tricky to do. 

4. Every step of the way, your characters must have a goal.
Simply surviving isn't enough. Just look at The Walking Dead. They always have a goal, whether it's to get revenge, find the rest of the group or help take Eugene to Washington because he says he has a cure.

For instance, in The Restless Dead they had to go to a shopping mall for supplies. There was no way out of it. Having goals creates conflict and brings your characters to life. Put your characters into a situation and see how they get out of it. 

5. Don’t do what writers of The Walking Dead’s did and get too bogged down with one aspect of your plot.
In the case of the hit show, they dwelled too much on the Lori, Shane and Rick love triangle. In the end, I’m sure I wasn’t the only one who got bored with it. If I wanted that kind of storyline, I'd watch a soap opera. 

In a zombie novel, the zombies must be king. 






Now for the zombies

Now yo've got the book sorted, it's time to think about what kind of zombies you'll have? 
Will it be the shufflers or the runners?

Will they be smarter zombies or the standard slow kind? 

Choose wisely, then run (or shuffle) with it.

Remember, it's your story and nobody can tell it like you can:) 



Why not check out my zombie novel? 
Check out the cover. It's pretty cool and is actually a scene from the book.




And available as an eBook from the following stores (not sure that I approve as an ereader isn't going to be much use against zombies, whereas a book comes in handy) - 

An Excerpt from revenge thriller Hell To Pay - Die Hard for Girls Book 1

PROLOGUE

"How deep down do we need to go?"

He can see her plump silhouette in the torchlight and imagine her tight, frightened face as she speaks.

"How the fuck do I know, Maureen? It’s no like I’ve done this before."

He instantly regrets biting her head off, but he doesn’t feel well: the sweat’s coming off him in waves and his heart’s beating so fast a heart attack is a distinct possibility. The last one had very near finished him off.

"You said you knew what you were doing, Willie."

She left the part she always got to about him not having a clue hanging in the air, but he knew it was there. It was always bloody there. He’d spent the last forty-five years pretending not to notice the tone that spoke of umpteen disappointments and things he'd done wrong.

He carries on digging. His back’s buggered, but he needs to keep on filling the spade with dirt and then dumping it to one side before it starts to get light and the neighbors start asking questions. He’ll take the soil to the dump later. Much later. The way things were going; he’d need to sleep for a week first.

The flashlight Maureen’s holding starts to dip; her hands must be cold (she always had bad circulation – there was a fancy medical term for it, but he could never remember it). It occurs to him that she might be shaking with fear and he knows he should tell her that everything’s going to be all right, so he stops for a moment, glad of the rest and props his body against the muddy shovel, wiping a dirty hand across his sweaty brow.

"We’re doing the right thing here. You know that, hen. If the police find it, it’s an automatic five years. He won’t last that long in prison. Not at one long stretch. You know that. He’s too damn soft."

In the darkness, he hears her crying. "How did it come to this? Where did we go wrong?"

As he resumes digging, the crunch of the spade on the soil drowns out the sound of her tears.

Two Days Later…

"You know, Nancy, it takes more muscles to frown than it does to smile."

A workmate pointed that out and got a two-fingered gesture in return.

Today had been a right bitch of a day, frowned Nancynot giving a monkey’s whether it gave her wrinkles. All she wanted to do now was curl up on her parent’s couch; hands curled around a bowl of mum’s homemade lentil soup, with butterbeans the size of canoes and listen to Mum’s latest gossip, as Dad snorted from behind his book.

The prospect of going home, made her want to punch someone. Michael was being a right moody bastard these days and she wanted to avoid him and his soulless flat in Glasgow’s West End that she’d stupidly agreed to move into. If he plonked down one more coaster, and warned her once more not to mark his Charles Rennie Mackintosh coffee table, she was going to turn into the Hulk and smash him over the bloody skull with it.

She pulled up outside the house, relaxing as she took in the view. Little lanterns glowed in the windows and the Christmas tree (a real one, not one of those ‘plastic mutants’ as her mum called them) was the usual grand affair with twinkling lights and enough tinsel to wrap around the whole of Glasgow. Perched on top was the fairy she’d made when she was six-years-old; the poor thing was lopsided with a grin that was more troll than fairy, but her mum always insisted on placing it on the tree every year along with the Shug's star. He’d made it when he was seven; the last time he’d made his parents proud.

She trotted up the short gravel path, surprised to find the door ajar. Her parents weren’t usually that careless. No one left their doors open in Glasgow, not unless they wanted their house to get burgled. There were too many thieving scumbags around. She knew that because her brother was one of them, what they called a ‘career thief.’

As she strolled down the short hall, she heard drawers being pulled open and cupboard doors being slammed and raised her eyes to the ceiling. Whoop-de-do, just in time for her parents to have one of their, "I don’t know where it is, you saw it last" type arguments. That’s all she needed, when she’d come here for some peace and quiet, not their bickering.

But, she couldn’t hear any voices. And something else struck her as odd. She can’t hear the TV either; usually it was blaring away as her parents watched the latest TV crime drama.

Something wasn’t right.

She wanted to leave, to get back in her car and drive. But that was ridiculous. This was her home. Where she’d always been safe.

"Mum, Dad," she shouted.

She expected them to appear at any moment and start arguing with one another about who left the front door open.

She took a few more steps into the living room and walked straight into hell…

Chapter 1

I’m cold, colder than I’ve ever been in my entire life and I don’t know why. Slowly, I open my eyes, tentatively at first because even opening them a fraction feels like someone's shoving red-hot pins into them. The light is so bright.

What’s with the light anyway?

Has Michael wandered in, blootered on some poncy new beer and left the light on, after collapsing in a heap onto the bed?  I’ll brain him if he has. I’m no good to anyone when I don’t get my eight hours.

Pulling myself up in bed, I reach out my arm to nudge him awake so I can give him a right mouthful. My hand finds empty space.

Where is he?

My eyes sting as I prise them open – it’s as though there's been an accident with false lashes and I've glued my eyelashes together - and that’s when I realise I’m not in our flat. The reason I’m freezing is because I’m wearing a tracing paper thin hospital gown: the kind that shows off your backside when you’re being whisked off to x-ray.

A tidal wave of panic hits me and I jerk into full consciousness.
What’s happened to me?
I try to remember, but my brain’s all bunged up as if the top of my head's been removed and the cavity filled with cotton wool.
My arms are bandaged up. Have I been in an accident?  If I have, I don’t remember. Maybe I hit my head.
I take in my surroundings. If I’m in hospital, it’s no ordinary one. For one thing, my room’s more like a cell. There’s a bed and a table bolted to the floor, but no personal stuff: photos, or cards, or stuffed animals from people wishing me well. Does anyone even know I’m here?
I grope for a call button to get a nurse, but there isn’t one. What the hell? This place is a prison.
Staggering out of bed, I fight the wave of nausea and dizziness that make me want to yell at the world to stop moving because I want to get off the carousel. The tile floor is stone cold and there are no slippers by the bed. My feet are ice blocks. Why don’t I have any socks or tights on? 
Before I reach the door, there's a jingle of keys, then a key scrapes in the lock. Holding my breath, I brace myself for what’s coming.
A woman I don’t recognize with brown hair tied back in a ponytail appears. She’s dressed in a nurse’s uniform and there’s a small smile playing on the edge of her lips.
"Good, you’re awake, Nancy."
She sounds pleased, as if we’re bosom buddies, when I’ve never seen her before in my life.
"Where am I?"
My voice comes out as a rasp as though my throat’s been sandpapered down.
The nurse puts a hand on my shoulder. "Let’s get you back into bed, Nancy."
I do as she says. I’m worried if I don’t lie back, I’ll faint.
"You’re in Parkview Hospital," she says, as she fixes the pillows so I can sit upright.
I know all the hospitals in Glasgow, but I haven’t heard of that one. I ask her what kind of hospital it is and she tells me it’s a psychiatric facility. The reason I haven’t heard of it, is because they don’t publicize it. Perhaps because it’s full of nutters they want to keep away from society. The prospect terrifies me because that would mean they must think I’m cuckoo. Why else would I be here? 
I suck in my breath. When I ask her if this is a nut house, she presses her lips tightly together as she tells me no one refers to psychiatric hospitals in that way any more. Suitably chastised, I mumble an apology not because I think one’s needed, but because she’s the one with the keys.
"Why am I here?"
I’m dreading the answer, but I need to know. I don’t feel any different. Surely if I’d lost my mind, I'd know.
"You had a breakdown."
The way she says it, she could be talking about the weather.
She asks me if I want anything and I tell her a pair of proper pajamas, a dressing gown and slippers would be nice because I’m an ice block. If she gets in touch with Mum, she’ll bring me in some stuff.
Her smile’s still there, but breaks down around the corners of her mouth. There’s something she’s not telling me, because she’s worried how I’ll react. There’s fear in her eyes. I notice she’s wearing a lucky heather brooch, the same one I got for Mum. I’m staring at it as she tells me she’s going to fetch a doctor, when a memory stirs inside me and no matter how hard I try to push it away, someone’s taken their finger out the dyke and the water’s rushing in.
Blood, blood everywhere. Dad’s slumped in his favorite armchair, head bent forward as if in prayer (he never prayed a day in his life); a single bullet hole in his head. I know it’s him, even although his face has been beaten to a pulp: his blood staining the fireside rug my mum was so fond of. Even in death, my dad has a presence. He fills a room with the sheer weight of his personality. Discarded nearby is the baseball bat they used on him. It’s covered in blood and something sticky and dark brown, resembling raw mince.

All material is copyright of the author Jenny Thomson (C)

Hell To Pay is available on
Amazon.co.uk
Amazon.com
Amazon.ca
Amazon.com.au 

How bad punctuation could kill grandma

Here's the proof -

Is Kindle Unlimited hitting author incomes?

Is Kindle Unlimited picking authors pockets?
Kindle Unlimited sounded like it might actually help authors to reach a wider readership. For a relative small sum a month ($9.99), members can read as many Kindle books as they want. Authors like me hoped that would lead to our books that wouldn't otherwise be bought, being lent instead and us getting a payment (albeit less than what we'd get for a sale) for each loan.

Sadly, I've found Kindle Unlimited has lost me money, especially for my non-fiction title, Living Cruelty Free: Live a More Compassionate Life.




I put a lot into writing that book. More than I put into any of my fiction titles, because I had to do so much gruelling, distressing research into animal cruelty and human cruelty towards other humans that gave me nightmares. All of the research took almost a year to do and I had to decipher complicated laws that made my head spin.

I had a publisher for the book, who badly let me down and didn't send me a royalty statement in 2 whole years since the book was published, causing me so much stress trying to get the rights to my own book back. Then I self-published. I did everything myself and it cost me more money than I could afford.

Considering the work that went into Living Cruelty Free, a book readers could turn to again and again, I felt a Kindle price of £4.99 ($8.99 in the USA) was fair.

Sadly, I'm starting to notice a trend. I sell a book and it shows up in my sales on KDP. Soon after, usually within an hour, that book appears as returned and a loan shows up almost right away.


So, what's happening?
To me, its simple.

People are either 1. Buying the book by mistake, instead of borrowing it using Kindle Unlimited, and then they're returning the book and borrowing it.

Or, 2. Borrowing the book because it costs nothing.

You can't blame readers. But, you can blame Amazon for having the facility to buy and borrow a book on the same page (which i believe is confusing people) and for coming up with a scheme that takes even more money away from writers.


Borrow rates for authors on KU in 2024
When one of my book sells, I make $6.26 or £3.37 on a 70% royalty. On a loan, I make just over a dollar. So you can see how I lose out every time a buyer switches to a lender.

I'm not alone in this. Other authors are also being hit in the pocket, and many of them used to be big earners. See here

What's your experience of KU? How has it affected you? I would love to hear your experience. 

There's somebody outside the door...introducing Don't Come For Me

Hell to Pay is based on something that's probably happened to us all.

You're alone at night, in the bathroom when you hear a noise outside the door.

And there's this tiny part of you, the primaeval part of you that thinks there's someone outside that door.



SOMEONE WAITING
TO GRAB YOU

SOMEONE WAITING
TO ROB YOUR HOUSE

In almost every case, there will be nobody outside that door. Or, it'll be your cat/dog who's knocked down some furniture.

But, what if someone is out there?
What do they want?
Who are they?

That's how the idea for Don't Come for Me came about.

You can find out what's outside Nancy Kerr's door by reading Don't Come for Me.

OUT SOON 

For 2 days only, The Restless Dead is FREE on Kindle Dec 23rd Dec 24th

To celebrate the re-launch of my zombie novel as The Restless Dead with a fantastic new cover, the book s FREE today and tomorrow on Kindle.

Here's a taster -
Somebody attacked Archie and that somebody had to be a zombie because last time I checked, the dead didn’t wake up, stinking of putrefying flesh and try and bloody eat you.” 
And so begins Emma and Scott’s battle for survival against the things they dub dead bastards. Teaming up with self-proclaimed zombie expert Kenny, who works in Glasgow’s last remaining video store, macho man Mustafa from the newsagents and mystery man Doyle, they face a battle to survive the flesh eating hordes rampaging through Scotland.
Now they have just one aim – 
JUST
DON'T
GET
BITTEN. 

"If Shaun of the Dead met The Walking Dead, you'd get The Restless Dead."

The offer starts on December 23rd at midnight (Pacific Central Time), which is 8am in the UK and ends at midnight (PCT) on December 24th, which is 8am on December 25th in the UK.

Here's the links -
Amazon.com
Amazon.co.UK
Amazon.ca
Amazon.com.au

Please pass on the link to anyone you think may be interested. I'd really appreciate it and if you do read The Restless Dead, please leave a few words on Amazon. Thanks:)


Take care and stay safe in the zombie apocalypse.