Kim Congram's Blog, page 10

Beta Reader Reviews are IN!

So I took the scary step of sending On Edge off to the Beta Reader community.

First review is in and I am blown away by the feedback.

“LOVING the story. Most of the time it takes a chapter or two to get in to the story, but you have had me since the coffee house.”

For reference the coffee house is on the first page. The first one! The kind comments kept coming (along with some really helpful ones to get my editing fingers working) and now I’m in happy tears! Someone liked my little story. A stranger read it and thought it was great!

To the point where they wrote this… “WHEN IS THE NEXT BOOK COMING OUT?! I need it now!!”

Excuse me while I run around my house squee-ing with excitement!

– Rough Edges Book One, On Edge coming late 2015.

Beta Readers

It’s off! I sent On Edge off to the Beta Readers today! EEEKKKKK!!!

So incredibly awesome but frightening at the same time. What if they love it? WHAT IF THEY HATE IT!!?? This is awesome and scary and thrilling and terrifying and I want to know what they think TODAY!!!!

Give me a week and if the feedback is bad I may end up crying into a carton of ice cream wondering why I ever thought this dream would come true…

Let’s just hope they like some of it.

Breaking Point

I’ve been trying to write a novel in a month. It’s been tough, keeping myself accountable. Trying to get to the end of a chapter when tired.

And worst of all I was starting to dislike the story.

I was at the point where I hated my Hero. Hated him! He was a dick, I didn’t get why he was doing the things he did, the Heroine was confused. The whole thing was going down hill fast.

Then he was like – Kim. You need to look at my past and here’s what happened.

AND IT WAS HEARTBREAKING! HEART-BREAKING!

I get it. I got it. I cried.

Shit got real and now we’re cool. Hero saved.

But I am in for a crazy journey with the book!

Novella

The sky is finally blue and the sun is finally shining after a week of rain. Alas, it is bitterly cold in Canberra so the heater is on.

But! To cheer myself up I have placed my Novella – the Gamble – up on all good e-book stores! And it is free (everywhere but Amazon, but I’m working on that!).

So go! Download and enjoy a preview of the type of writing I churn out!

(P.S. Links can be found in the store area of the website).

Rough Edges Series – Book One: On Edge

Thought I’d pop a sample of book one from my Rough Edges Series. 

On Edge is due for release in Early October 2015

Please note: It is subject to change. 

My parents’ grave was surrounded by flowers and mourners. I was wearing a non-descript tee and faded jeans. Rockers, jazz musicians and strangely a violinist were drinking around their grave. This I hated.

I headed to the tomb and placed my usual offering. Roses for my mother, her perfume had always smelt of roses and she’d always told me that you knew you were a big hit when someone bought you roses. For my dad it was a single lily. He’d always say you bought roses for someone you didn’t know and lilies for people who meant something to you.

I sat down amongst the mourning groupies and silently filled my parents in on the last year. They’d have been so proud of Courtney. I still didn’t know what they’d make of me.

I loved music. It was my addiction. But I feared fame and its associated vices. Thus I lived in the sphere of the music world but outside of its limelight. I was pretty happy and I hoped they would be happy for me.

I got up and headed back towards my car. Someone had started singing my dad’s My Baby. He’d written it as his love song to me when I’d been born.

The lyrics “You came into my life, so innocent and small, you moved my heart with your eyes, broke it with your tiny call, I’ll look after you my Baby, I’ll be your daddy today, I’ll hold you in my arms My Baby, forever you will stay” were sang clearly and I shuffled past.

Grief hit you at the strangest of times. Sometimes I’d hear a laugh that sounded like my mums and look over waiting to see her. Sometimes in the middle of the night I’d lay awake thinking about them on that road. My dad had died in hospital, my mum had died at the scene. I’d think about them. Scared, hurt, probably hysterical. I’d feel overwhelming guilt that they had been alone when they’d gone.

And I’d been about to make love to a guy. Pax. God.

I opened my car door and tossed my small handbag in. It was one of those long strapped ones that wrapped over your opposite shoulder and fell onto your hip. I loved it. It was leather and the last present my parents had got me. Battered now, worn in. It still looked great.

A hand grabbed my arm stopping me. I started and jerked, spinning to confront a man in black. Cliché was the word which sprang to mind. He was tall and broad and wearing a suit. My immediate thought was hot bad guy.

“Miss Oliver.” It wasn’t a question. I jerked my head back and bumped into the car.

“No. You’ve got the wrong person.”

“Miss Oliver you need to come with me.”

I shook my head. “No. You have the wrong person.”

He turned my wrist around and held up the phoenix tattoo. “Let’s go.” He started dragging me away and I started shouting. The dead head rockers were looking at me but no one intervened.

“I’m being kidnapped you motherfuckers!” I screamed as I hit and kicked out at Mr Suit. He quite easily overpowered me. A bit of a joke really. I knew to look for a nut kick but he didn’t give me any opportunity.

The door to the SUV swung open and I was tipped inside. Mr Suit slid in and nodded to the driver. I was squished between Mr Suit and Mr Suit 2. Both were broad, built and wearing what I assumed was expensive shit. Having never been a label person I wasn’t sure. Did I have time to ask? Instead I kicked out and tried to climb over the centre console to hit the driver. I was jerked back and swung to face Suit 2.

“You want me to hurt you? I got a taser and a tranq. You sit quiet, you sit still you don’t got to have either. You start this shit up you get it. Your decision.” I sat quiet and still. Making a mental note of street signs and filing my captors appearances away. I took in everything I could. The police were going to need everything from me.

We drove for close to an hour before they pulled off into what looked like a country club. It was in reality a giant house with immaculate gardens and lawns. The doors opened and we headed up to the mansion.

The place had marble and white brick with double bay windows. It was gorgeous. I shivered and was helped out of the car. As I headed up the stairs, I was once again the meat in a Suit sandwich.

The housekeeper opened the door wearing a little black and white outfit I honestly thought people only wore in movies. We headed down a hall towards the centre of the house. Rooms flanked either side and we were moving too quickly for me to see anything except more marble, rugs, furniture and what I assumed were expensive art items.

The people or person who owned this place had shit taste. A door at the end of the corridor opened and another housekeeper, or maid maybe, walked out. She shifted past us as we entered and then the door closed. A man was seated behind the big desk.

“Jetta. Welcome.” He talked like I knew him. “Take a seat. Water? Coffee? Something to eat?” I sat on the leather chair and shook my head.

“No thank you.” If ever there was a time for being polite I think this was it.

“Ah. Well let’s get started shall we?” He was short, shorter than I anticipated with greying hair a decent body. He was immaculately dressed and had a small bald spot in the middle of the back of his head. He looked like someone’s accountant.

His study was done in woods and dark heavy colours. It was like he’d seen a pin-trest board about how a man’s study should look and vomited everything from that into the room. It had dead animal heads, signed baseball gloves, basketballs, books, two world globes, framed pictures of him with various famous people.

“Is that my dad?” I nodded to the picture hanging off the side. He turned and strode over to remove it.

“I have one with your mother as well in my other room. I also have a recent one with your sister. I would like to have one with you but…” His voice trailed off. I didn’t react. Cold tore through me. Goosebumps rose on my skin. He watched me and smiled a little, handing over the picture.

“My name is Simon Esso.” He said it like I should know it.

“I’m really sorry but I don’t know who you are.”

He nodded. “I realise this. I should have met you years ago but I decided to let you raise your sister. I waited. Not something I normally do. But now is the right time. Actually, to be frank I’d forgotten about you until yesterday.  My wife had been watching ET and they were commenting on the anniversary of your parents’ death. Today I believe.”

I nod. He continues. “I then remembered you, and thought it was time to have a chat.” He pulls a manila folder out from his desk and hands it to me. “Your father owed me a lot of money upon his death, Jetta. This documents it.”

– Copyright of Kim Cong 2015, subject to change prior to publication.

The Art of Reading

I find there is an art to reading. It begins with the contemplation of what you most feel like imaging. Perhaps a historical of sweet love? Or more thriller? Am I in the mood for a sci-fi adventure or perhaps an old favourite?

Then comes selection of the location. Much like organising a  party, you scope your options and choices. Perhaps today I will laze outside on a picnic blanket in the sun. If it’s cold and rainy, my giant hand seat with the soft throw will suit me quite well.

Then comes the dress code. It is cold today, but in the sun it is quite lovely. Yoga pants, 3/4 sleeve top and a light pull over should I feel the brisk wind. (And always a pair of warm socks). Clothes that are comfortable and climate appropriate.

Nothing should distract me from my reading pleasure.  A good book is a treat that should be enjoyed with the same wholehearted preparation as say an anniversary or a vacation. Why? Because these people who read find attraction in the escape. For a few hours we live other lives. We are seduced by the word. Our imagination is gorged by the stimulus.

Every word I read is a new description I can envision. My idea of the hero may differ dramatically to yours, but we love him not for our vision of him, but for the words he speaks and the emotions he induces. I may be the heroine or may be the benevolent spirit that watches scenes play out, but either way I am invested in this story.

I paint landscapes in my head. I build cities and venues. I am an architect and a builder. I am a painter and interior designer. I am both leader and follower as these characters take me on their journey.

And when I return from my reading cocoon to find hours past and things much the same. I am comforted to know that I have tried once again to refine my art.