K.M. Frontain's Blog, page 7
July 6, 2013
Site wide sale event on Smashwords
Fan art by Ambra, based on character from The Soulstone Chronicles series by K.M. Frontain
Smashwords is having a site wide promotional event this month. Participating authors are giving anywhere between 25 and 100% off. My novels are all on discount for the event. Click here to visit the page of Haru of Sachoné House, which is currently free. Visit my other book pages for discounts too.
This is a Smashwords event only. If you know how to side load onto your Kindle, Nook or other tablet, sign up for an account. It’s well worth the visit.
July 3, 2013
My tweets
June 21, 2013
My tweets
June 20, 2013
Writing research on vampire plot bunny.
Writing Research 1
Oh, the things we readers put into a novel, all by our lonesome selves, and then attribute it to the author. The guesswork and conjecture concerning Stoker’s Dracula novel may be the reason it is an enduring classic.
However, I admit to skimming heavily the unabridged edition to get to the action as fast as possible because it was just a big religious discussion too much of the time.
Coitus Interruptus: Sex, Bram Stoker, and Dracula.
Writing Research 2
Something that has been on my mind for a while, longer than this WIP existed in my head. This question started since reading Dracula, then the Lestat novels. Then Buffy comes along with her barn of bulls, and Edward has a baby with what’s her name, and some psychic blonde in a backwoods bar has more than one vampire tagging after her bottom, and it goes on and on.
Modern sex maniac vampires: how likely are they? Really?
http://howanimalsdoit.com/2011/11/01/the-reproductive-biology-of-vampires/
My tweets
June 19, 2013
Vampire plot bunny twisted into a slightly different story.
Image found on http://kupika.com/emo_vampire I’m not sure of the name of the original artist. But is cute.
I wrote this vampire plot bunny up (as you know if you read the earlier posts), one chapter to get it solidified (characters, general feel of story), then I mentioned to family members the next day how I can’t seem to write heterosexual stories (your basic woman X man scenario). Then I thought, many hours later, why not translate the chapter into the main character being female. See what happens. See if I can like this person.
Shocker. I liked her. She felt real instead of typical and stale. So! Lesson I learned: write the female character like she’s a man.
And then I had the fun treat of actually removing names in preference of pronouns, because, unusual for me, two genders in a scene. Ha, ah. That was actually an interesting exercise.
So, first chapter polished and prepped, and as a result, lots of plot fell into my mental space while I was occupied with dishes or whatever else while not here at keyboard. I’m happy with this. The basic theme is solid and the plot is solid already too. Have written up notes.
But I must get back to the regularly scheduled mayhem of my other series. I have readers asking for next books.
June 17, 2013
My tweets
June 16, 2013
When vampire plot bunnies attack.
From webpage: http://www.wired.com/geekdad/2010/10/weekend-project-make-a-vampire-bunny-for-halloween/
Plot bunny attacked. Again.
I'm not sure if this beginning will be used for the plot bunny I had in mind. I've been working on various of my projects that need completion, from polishing prior to looking at print-on-demand versions, to adding bits of new stuff to Redemption 4. I've been keeping notes of where and what to add to the follow up books in all my series. But this plot bunny, which has been hanging about in my head for years, felt like approaching the end of the warren tunnel and exposing a toe. So I let it. No title as yet. I have been stubborn about avoiding this bunny because it is a vampire novel and I wanted to stay away from them. But bunny fangs kept popping into view.
No shiny sparklies in this story unless gunpowder explodes in a scene. The vampires are nasty. Just nasty.
But here is the beginning, maybe with not enough scenery yet. I was getting to the point of adding more.
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“Yes, sir.”
Marshall grasped the used gelatin dry plate and placed the next one, correct side up, in Mr. Tophman’s hand. While Tophman slipped the flat wooden square into the mahogany camera, Marshall squatted and packed the used plate in the storage case, taking extra care that the dark slide didn’t slip out of position as he manoeuvred the plate down beside the others. Tophman didn’t suffer fools in his employ. His last assistant had been sloppy. A photograph had been destroyed—a particularly important one, according to Tophman—and the young man’s employment had been terminated.
That had occurred a year ago back in Toronto, Canada, before Marshall had taken over. But Tophman and Marshall weren’t in Canada, and Marshall couldn’t return without Tophman paying the expenses. He wasn’t a rich boy like these other tourists gazing down at the spectacular gorge in a quaint highland region of Switzerland with a name he couldn’t pronounce. He was a lucky-to-have-work small town boy who’d been chased from his home before he’d turned eighteen. That’s what came of challenging a pastor father with Charles Darwin’s evolutionary theory and then getting caught procreating with the neighbour’s too young second wife, the very day after an explosive argument about who would go to hell if there really was such a place.
“Perfect, perfect,” Tophman muttered.
Perfect if his father went, Marshall thought. He glanced at his left ring finger. Tophman’s doctor had said he was lucky it healed without a more obvious sign of injury. Lucky it healed at all, really. The knuckle was a little too large and had an ugly white scar over it. He still couldn’t bend it right. Probably never would. But at least he still had the finger. He’d run from the house with it dangling by the skin on the under side. He’d shoved the severed phalanges into position, wrapped the digit with a clean handkerchief and staggered to the train station, in shock and with nothing to carry but the clothes he wore and the finger he didn’t want to lose. Not even money to pay his way. If it weren’t for a friend employed at the station, he’d never have left the township.
“Marshall, do you see that young man over there, the one wearing the red neckerchief?”
Marshall lifted to a stand and focused on the group further down the path. The man with the red neckerchief was a tall, blond, youthful Briton with an athletic physique and winning smile. Currently focused on a woman. Hat off too. He had the charm fired to full steam ahead.
“See what you can do about a meeting later at the hotel, hmm? They always respond to you better,” Tophman said.
Of course they did, skinny, cadaverous old pervert.
“Marshall?”
His employer’s tone had become peremptory. “Yes, sir,” Marshall said. “Do I mention the interest in nude portraiture?”
“If you think he’ll bite.”
“He doesn’t look that sort of fish, sir.” Especially not while ogling one of the few female tourists present during this outing. Man was desperate. The woman was a sturdy matronly sort …, though she did have a rather lovely round mouth and full, girlish cheeks. Actually, she looked very … fit for her age. Hmm ….
“Then mention there might be girls assisting or posing as well. Whatever works,” Tophman said. When Marshall didn’t respond, Tophman at last settled an irritated glower on his assistant. “Marshall!”
“Yes, sir. Can’t do it now, sir. The others will get in the way. Unless you want them all to hear?”
“No. Try later, perhaps during our next repast.”
“Yes, sir,” Marshall said, voice impassive. Of course, later. All it took was one irritated accusation of perverse interests, and even Tophman might have difficulties after.
“Another plate, do you think?” Tophman said, gazing at the impressive jagged edges of the stone below them. “Amazing what water and weather can do over time.”
“You’ve used three on this view alone and have only seven unused plates left for this outing, sir,” Marshall said.
“What? Really?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Damn it! Why didn’t you say before, Marshall?”
“Sorry, sir.” Because his employer would accuse him of nagging, that’s why, but Marshall knew better than to justify. He was on the voyage of a lifetime and only had to put up with a peevish old banker who could no longer maintain an erection. Firm rules at the beginning of his employment had established boundaries that Marshall could live with. Attempts to alter the boundaries through monetary sanctions and threats of terminated employment had been rebuffed with warnings of exposure, both socially and politically—Tophman had ambitions to become a senator. Marshall had early on ransacked Tophman’s bedroom and found photographs along with incriminating letters written to an old lover. Marshall had tucked them away in a safe place and used exact quotes to frighten his employer back onto the narrow track of their original agreement.
But the evidence was back in Canada, and Marshall couldn’t speak German. Tophman had rifled through Marshall’s bags to look for the blackmail items and, having not found them, concluded he could bully Marshall with increasing frequency while they were abroad. So far, Marshall had resisted everything but procuring new entertainment, mostly because he’d rather procure entertainment than be it.
But Marshall suffered a spurt of anxiety this time. Tophman had apparently targeted a man attracted to women. Men had been murdered for the things Tophman liked to do. Getting jailed was a worrying possibility, and things happened in jail. Very bad things.
“I’ve changed my mind,” Marshall said.
“What? Changed your mind about what exactly?” Tophman said. “Help me steady the legs of the tripod.” Marshall grasped the tripod while Tophman pulled the camera free of it. “Well?” Tophman prodded.
“I’m not approaching the man with the red neckerchief. He’s not the right fish at all.”
“It’s just portraiture!”
“Nude portraiture, and he doesn’t look the type interested in it.”
“You won’t know until you ask.”
“Fine, I’ll ask.”
“Wait…! What are planning, Marshall? If you’re going to ask, do it right.”
“Not this time. I’m asking outright, and you had better play the part of a restrained Canadian photographer with no ulterior motives than an artist’s appreciation of the athletic form,” Marshall said, casting a glance at the young man, who now held the matron’s hand and walked with her toward one of the wagons that had carried them up the mountainside to the gorge.
“I’ll be lucky to get his upper clothes off,” Tophman said in irritation, looking at the lost fish with Marshall. As they watched, the young man paused to pluck a grouping of alpine wildflowers and present them to the woman. “Why are you being so difficult?”
Marshall folded the tripod legs together and tied them shut for travelling. “Self-preservation. I like being alive.” That woman had a lovely smile. Now what handy, cheap item could he find that bettered wildflowers …?
“Damn it, Marshall. I want you to—”
“No.” Like as not, just more and varied wildflowers.
“Don’t interrupt me!” Tophman snapped. “You will do what you’re told or—”
“I can and will pitch all your photographs off this cliff,” Marshall said.
“You’re fired.”
“Fine. I’ll start with the tripod, shall I?” He heaved it back for an underhanded toss off the precipice.
“Stop! I didn’t mean it!” Tophman said.
“Then don’t say it at all,” Marshall replied. He looked back at his employer. Beneath the wide-brimmed straw hat that kept the sun off wrinkled pale skin and faded blue eyes, Tophman was a study of mixed exasperation and dismay. “And heave…!” Marshall said, raising the tripod a little further to the rear.
“You’re not fired. Damn it, Marshall. I wouldn’t do that to you.”
“Why should I believe you? After all the things you’ve said in the past, the things you ask me to do? I’m here, alone and penniless but for you, and you’ve already made threats of abandonment unless certain extra accommodations are offered.”
“Damn it…! Marshall, I wouldn’t really abandon you. I love you.”
Marshall dropped the tripod out of one hand.
“Marshall!”
“What? Sorry. That was an accident. Really. You surprised me. I was expecting more threats.”
“Everything all right over there?” someone called. Marshall discovered the red neckerchief man approaching. How very odd.
Wonderful,” Tophman breathed, but rather than looking pleased, he remained flustered. Marshall realized he’d completely knocked his employer off his usual suave game.
“Are we leaving already?” Marshall asked the approaching Briton, who tapped his bowler hat on his well-proportioned thigh. The light-weight grey wool stretched a little too tightly over upper legs and crotch. Marshall surmised the fellow had increased in girth recently. Probably from all the hiking up and down hills involved in tours of old castles in Europe.
“Yes, I was just coming to alert you,” the young man said. “Beautiful camera. I’ve an interest in them. I was wondering if I could pay you for a photograph?”
Oh, Lady of Fortune. Bless you. “Yes, we’d be delighted. Will you sit with us tonight at supper and discuss it?” Marshall asked.
“Yes, thank you. I shall.” The young man shoved a hand forward. “Martin Rothers.”
They shook. “Marshall Friesen. Mr. Alan Tophman, my employer.”
Hands were proffered and grasped for a second quick shake, but now Rothers had a perplexed air. “Oh, I thought you were a nephew or grandson,” he said to Marshall.
“What gave you that impression?” Tophman asked.
“Well, uh … it looked like a family squabble, what with Friesen here about to pitch the tripod into the river,” Rothers said, a crease forming between his brows. “Rather difficult employee, I must say. Are you Canadian, by the way?”
“Yes, both of us.”
“Yes, that’s what I thought I heard. Why don’t I see if I can get some chap to trade places with me in your conveyance and we can continue chatting? The guides are looking anxious to return to the village.”
“Yes, it is getting late.” Tophman moved toward the wagon, still seeming more put out than pleased. He cast a suspicious frown at Marshall, but focused to the front when Marshall heaved up the storage case and followed without further threats to the precious gelatin plates.
Rothers hung back, still observing with a mild, concerned squint. “Do you need help with that?” he asked Marshall.
“It’s not heavy,” Marshall said. “And it’s my job. Please don’t concern yourself.”
“Yes, well ….” Rothers’ voice lowered. “I overheard. Do you need, you know, help?”
“What do you mean? Overheard what?” Marshall asked.
“That thing he said, the reason I thought you were a grandson.”
“Oh,” Marshall said. Damn. “You shouldn’t concern yourself. He gets confused. His age, you know. His family hired me.”
“Oh, I see.” But Rothers didn’t look entirely convinced.
“He’s a brilliant photographer, just a little addled.”
Tophman glanced back with a brow raised. “Who’s addled?”
“Your cousin Myles, remember?” Marshall said. Myles was Tophman’s barber. No relation.
“Oh, yes. Myles.” He looked at Rothers, expression guarded, and Marshall guessed his employer was well aware of the severity of their current position. “Who shall we ask to switch places?”
“Well, actually, I did already. The, uh, lady there and her husband. My cousin and I will sit here with you on the return journey. I’d very much like to discuss photography with you."
“Yes, of course,” Tophman said.
They halted at the back of the wagon. Tophman waited for Marshall to stow the tripod and frame case under a bench, then handed over the camera. While both Rothers and Tophman climbed into the conveyance, Marshall hauled out the camera’s carrying case and packed the expensive instrument in. Rothers had seated himself across from Tophman. Marshall claimed a place at his employer’s side. By then, Rothers had succeeded in waving his cousin away from a last look at the gorge and over to their wagon.
“Here he is, my cousin James Grandly.”
Tophman and Marshall shook hands with a slighter and shorter version of Martin with sandy brown hair. Of course Tophman hadn’t noticed him earlier, because he had poor skin and a habit of keeping his head lowered.
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And that's all she wrote so far.
