Denise Covey's Blog, page 6

#FREEDOMMORNING - #WEPAPRILCHALLENGE - MY #FLASHFICTION, 'THE BEACH HOUSE.'

 Hello! Welcome to the #WEP April challenge. This is our Year of Art at WEP, and we started with a very successful challenge with Klimt's THE KISS for February. A challenge won by Jemi Fraser with Sin and Sunshine. To read Jemi's flash to give you an idea of the kind of writing that wins prizes, go HERE. 

This month we honor Claude Clark, an African American artist and art educator. In his bio, he said, 'As a child in the churches, the schools and the community, I dreamed of a destiny.' This dream is shared by so many today, with modern day slavery skyrocketing to numbers over 40 million. And of course, that's just a very conservative estimate. Big Chocolate, Big Coffee, Big Tabacco  -- most of the 'Bigs' have discovered how using child slaves in their plantations adds to their bottom line, even though they've promised to 'end child slavery' -- ha ha ha.

The 'Big' stories are for another day. I nearly shared Arno's Big Chocolate story, but that would have spoiled Easter for you. This challenge is perfect for one of the causes close to my heart -- arranged marriage and domestic abuse, whether mental or physical or both. These stories make me fume.

Today, I want to share Emma Dil's story. Like Claude Clark, she dreamed of a destiny far removed from her present day situation.

The Beach House

 

Emma Dil was a fool to leave Paris. 

The city where she feels safe.

W

here freedom reigns.

She was a fool to come back.

Here.

Here holds too many memories, too many secrets.

Memories and secrets she can no longer ignore.

She must deal with them or she’ll never reach her potential.

There. In front of her. The beach house, its timbers broken and exposed. Since she escaped, years of relentless tides have eaten away at its foundations. It now teeters on the edge of the dunes, on its knees in the sand, ready to surrender to a king tide.

Today the ocean holds no threat like it did that night many years ago. Its gentle waves lap the sand, leaving a trail of silvery froth and grit. Gazing at the peaceful sea, she almost forgets why she suppressed her memories for so long. But the mind holds onto things, remembers things best forgotten, overwhelms in the early morning hours when the body is most vulnerable.

 Confronted with the crumbling house, her mind searches its dark recesses, unearthing hidden secrets which she thought buried. Through the years, in her silent moments when the busyness of life paused, it spoke so softly in the gentlest of whispers, as it tried to speak to her of its memories. Then there were other times when her pain rushed to the surface without warning, hurtling through her like a runaway train, threatening to derail her altogether.

 She cries, falls to her knees in the wet sand. She no longer wants to carry that heavy sharp stone of hurt which has kept her caged like a helpless bird, which has stopped her enjoying the freedom of her new life. 

 

She will no longer be held hostage to painful memories.

 Memories of her last terrible night in that crumbling house threaten to drown her in a tidal wave of hurt.

 

 ~*~

On the night she died to her old life, the wind roared, the rain poured, the waves crashed. The mighty Pacific Ocean swirled, rose and fell in a dance of wave and tide. Then the winds calmed, the moon rose and sat outside her window, bathing her in light.

 She’d been asleep, tossing and turning like the tide as she did every night. She’d opened her eyes and watched the moonlight creep across her bed like a lover’s soft caress. The sheets tangled and folded over the bed like waves. Kicking off the covers, she threw herself across the bed like a beached whale.

 The moon’s light overlooked the angry welts criss-crossing her legs. The wounds throbbed, but she had no ointments to ease the pain. But the pain she felt inside at her father’s betrayal was worse than any belting.  There were no ointments to soothe that sharp pain.

The crashing waves heralded high tide. Soon the water would rise to just below her window. The relentless pummeling against the house posts, thump, thwack, thump, thwack, thump, thwack, mimicked the sound and rhythm of her father’s belt as it cut her tender flesh while her mother cowed in the corner, praying, flinching each time the belt descended. Did she pray for her husband’s soul? For her daughter’s pain? Why didn’t she do something? Anything … But her mother was as helpless as she.

Father would not be denied his will. She was her father’s daughter. She would never give in to his demands. She would not marry the boy from Afghanistan, her father’s choice for her. She would marry the man she loved.

 A big storm had struck earlier in the night. Now the rain starts again. Relentless. Like her father’s demands. He locked her in her room until you come to your senses were his words. She hasn’t been able to communicate with Ahmed since she was imprisoned, but she was not afraid. She would escape her cage. She and Ahmet would be together. As God willed.

She knew Ahmet waited for her every night beyond the dunes. It was her hope. Her belief.

Tonight she must choose freedom.

 She wrapped her hand in the end of her sheet and smashed the locked window, thankful the pelting rain muffled the sound of breaking glass, thankful she did not cut herself on the jagged edges.

The black night sucked her in. 

Hitting the surprisingly warm water, she swam for her life, her robe tangled around her knees, dragging her under. Water filled her mouth and nose. Waves slapped her face but fell more gently than her father's hands. She fought the urge to surrender to the elements. No. She has waited too long for freedom. What was this water compared to the joy that lay ahead, a new life with her love? 

Her name meant ‘Heart’s Wish.’ She would have her wish.

A new life in Paris. With Ahmet.

Her bare feet found sand at last. Running out of the water, she held her sopping robe in her hands and sprinted toward the trees.

‘Emma Dil.’ Ahmed whispered her name as he stepped forward from his place on the dunes where he later told her he’d made a shelter and watched her window for many days and nights, fighting the urge to break down the door and drag her away from her father's abuse.

Now, at long last, Ahmed held her in his safe arms.

Freedom.

Home.

 

~*~

 

These many years later, Ahmed watches her from the top of the dunes, next to the crumbling wreck that had been her home when her family first arrived from Afghanistan. Before it became her prison. After she rises to her feet, in a few long strides he is by her side. He gently cradles her. Rocks her like a baby while she cries in his arms.

 Her tears are healing tears.

 She will be whole again.

 ‘My brave girl,’ he whispers.

 Over her shoulder the house groans and lurches, plunges into the sea. Its timbers break like skittles. The tide reaches out its greedy hand and sucks it under the waves.

WORDS: 1,000

FCA

If it's too late to join WEP this month, please consider joining us in June. We continue our Year of Art with this challenge - 

Thanks for visiting. To read more WEP stories, go HERE or click on names in the sidebar if it's up!

#IWSG April 2021. Risk taking in writing.

 Hello all!

Hope your month has been awesome. I'm sure this month will be interesting as we hear about risk taking in our writing.

Before I get into the question ...

Be sure to visit Alex's awesome co-hosts for the April - PK Hrezo, Pat Garcia, SE White, Lisa Buie Collard, and  Diane Burton!

  Be sure to visit the
Insecure Writer’s Support Group Website!!!
Here is the whole April 7 question - Are you a risk-taker when writing? Do you try something radically different in style/POV/etc. or add controversial topics to your work?

Source
So ... what does it mean to be a risk taker? A person who tries new things. Is that you? Is that me? Do we try new things in our writing?

To me, writing itself is risk taking. You could devote twenty years of your life to it and never finish anything, never publish anything. That's okay if you just love writing, but I want my writing to go somewhere. Do you? 

BUT ... our writing can be flummoxed by so many writing 'rules' - (here's just a few that annoy me) -

* 'as' must come first in a sentence unless it's a comparison, 

* you mustn't repeat the same word in a paragraph, so you're forever looking for synonyms to, for example, 'withdraw' which may not fit as well, 

* then there's the 'you can't start a book/chapter with the mc waking up,

* show don't tell - if you use 'show' all the time, your book will be twice as long! Sometimes you just have to get to the point already! 

* then there's the - no head hopping except in a romance ... blah, blah, blah.

I'm leery of 'writing rules' because I'm an avid, prolific reader and I see all of the above 'rules' broken by popular authors constantly (oh, and don't use *adverbs! Grr). And careful with *backstory. I read a lot of women's fiction and sometimes at the beginning there are pages of backstory. Can't say I enjoy that, and sometimes I throw the book across the room wondering how they got traditionally published, but what the heck, these are popular books which are best sellers on Amazon so there's a market. Breaking that 'backstory' rule hasn't hurt these authors who I imagine just sit down and write their story using their tried and true formula which keeps them on the best seller list in their genre. Pish to the rules they must think.

So is part of risk taking author behaviour breaking the above (and plenty more) writing rules? Do the writing police read our books? I think not. 

But I think the person who came up with the question this month wasn't referring to writing 'rules' per se. 

Other than breaking 'rules', my risk taking includes tackling issues. Not everyone likes this. A lot of readers read to escape and they don't want their equilibrium shattered by issues of domestic violence, patriarchal behaviour, PTSD and so on which you're going to find in my books when I publish. But I like books with issues, so that's what I write. There's a saying, 'write the book you want to read' and that's what I do. I don't set out to be controversial, I try to be real. Who doesn't struggle with something in their lives? I love books with issues and the mc overcoming in the end.

Thanks for reading. I'm sorry for my rant on 'writing rules' but sometimes I think they're pushed on newbie writers just to slow us down and keep us forever editing and never publishing. 

What's your view on this? Do you stick to the ever-changing 'rules', or do you write the way you want to?

~*~

In a little over a week, the April WEP challenge goes live. Here is a chance to write about an issue, if you haven't yet taken that risk. If you like tackling issues, go for it...

#IWSG post March - #Reading preferences.

 Hello fellow IWSG-ers! Hope your month has been awesome since we last got together. Today we're once again writing about our insecurities or securities. Which is yours this month? 

Alex's awesome co-hosts for the March 3 posting of the IWSG are Sarah - The Faux Fountain Pen Jacqui Murray, Chemist Ken, Victoria Marie Lees, Natalie Aguirre, and JQ Rose! Visit if you can!
 And ... be sure to visit the
Insecure Writer’s Support Group Website!!!
March 3 question - Everyone has a favorite genre or genres to write. But what about your reading preferences? Do you read widely or only within the genre(s) you create stories for? What motivates your reading choice?

So awesome to be talking about reading. I'm an eclectic reader of usually one hundred books a year. I absorb most, but not all, genres. My first two genres I'll publish are women's fiction and paranormal. I prefer not to read too many stories in my genre, as I've been working for years on those two genres, rewriting, editing, editing, editing ... so I reach for other genres to entertain me. 
I've always been a mad fan of psychological thrillers. I'm reading more and more of those currently, helped by a generous voucher gifted to me by one of my students. Here's my latest haul.


So many awesome authors in this genre. I've joined FB groups for UK Crime and such and am learning so much. I've got nearly half of a romantic suspense written, so learning the tropes won't hurt. Can't say that's my motivation for reading crime fiction, thrillers and romantic suspense. I just love the reading experience with suspense keeping my eyes on the page.
Have a great month all!
Thanks for coming by!

We're rocketing into April You're welcome to join us for the WEP April challenge!

Woo! Feel a challenge coming on?

#WEPff FEBRUARY - 'Woman in Gold', Inspired by 'THE KISS', Gustav Klimt.

Hello! Welcome to WEP 2021, the Year of Art. We begin with Klimt's THE KISS.

My entry today is taken from my to-be-published-in-2021 novel, Paris Dreams. We at WEP often share how many writers who've written a flash fiction for WEP go on to write a full-length novel. 

My story grew from a flash fiction Her Final Day that I wrote for #Fridayflash before the idea of WEP was born. It grew first into a short story of 3,000 words, then kept growing until I had 104,000 words, too much. So with help from my writer friends, it's now down to 100,000 words and I'm cutting more before it goes on pre-order. 

So, if you've toyed with the idea of writing for WEP, join me and many others who have turned flash fiction into a novel. And if you have a similar story, please share in comments.

For this excerpt, I cut down a 3,000 word chapter to 1,000 words, deleting, rearranging, massaging it to suit the challenge. It's the chapter which has references to Klimt so it suited the art theme. 

I hope you get the context and enjoy...

Woman in Gold

 

T

oday is the day I move into Apartment 5A of rue des Martyrs Residences in Montmartre. I’ve been too busy with coursework at the Paris Institut of Fashion to give much thought to moving day.

The day is here. Ready or not.

Raphael passes me a takeaway coffee and we toast each other. ‘Are you okay, Sassy?’ He puts a hand on my shoulder and watches me, no doubt afraid I’m going to have a meltdown.

‘It’s all good.’ I remember my exhilaration the evening I moved in and the good times I’ve shared here with Raphael since. ‘I’m both excited and nostalgic.’

He frowns, no doubt uneasy that he’s done the wrong thing convincing me to move. Throwing his empty cup into the trash, he says, ‘Let’s get into it then.’ He heaves my sewing machine from the worktable.

Tossing my cup, I grab a box of fabric samples and lead Raphael downstairs. I race ahead to the door, stepping aside to let Raphael stagger past and set my sewing machine onto the dining table. Walking across the shiny retro black and white diagonal tiles, I spy the marble fireplace with baroque trims. I put down my box. ‘Phew. This apartment is beyond gorgeous.’

‘That’s the reaction I wanted.’ He takes my hand. ‘Let’s do the tour.’

Everywhere I look there’s something amazing. ‘Wow, Raphael,’ I keep repeating. I’m staggered at how the rooms sparkle with early morning light shining through the large floor to ceiling windows and how the French doors climb up to the ceiling to pick out the adorable plaster cupids and the bunches of grapes dripping from the corners of the luscious molding. ‘I love it. Oh, those black wooden beams are fabulous against the white ceiling.’ I can’t resist rubbing my palm over the walls. With the suede effect designed by Raphael, the walls are white and soft as cheese. ‘These walls are a masterpiece.’

 ‘I knew you’d love them. Let’s go onto the balcony.’ He walks me past the opulent chaise he’s installed near the windows, opens the doors and with a flourish of his hand, ushers me outside.

Paris is spread at our feet. The sun turns the terracotta rooftops golden and there’s an even better view of the Eiffel Tower than from the attic. ‘Wow. We’ll share an evening drink and watch the sunset.’ I rub my hand over the scrolled steel tabletop and admire the chairs with plump black and white cushions. ‘How much furniture did you buy? I owe you.’

‘It’s a house-warming present. If you don’t like something, it can be returned.’

I grip the balcony rails and try not to resent him for buying furniture without checking with me. But his choices are perfect. Of course. He’s an artist. ‘You’ve made great choices. It feels like home. Thanks.’ I hug him and think how much I love Raphael and Paris. His generosity is not an act of control like my father’s back in New York, rather an act of love. But I would have liked black and pink checked cushion covers. Just saying.

Raphael kisses my forehead. ‘I love doing things for you.’

‘You’ve outdone yourself.’ Back inside, I marvel at the pièce de resistance, the opulent Louis X1V inspired bedroom with its luxuriant burgundy cover fringed with gold which wouldn’t be out of place at Versailles. ‘Raphael, it’s heaven.’ I turn and embrace him. ‘We’ll watch the Eiffel Tower twinkle from the bed.’

He gives me a wicked smile, takes a curl of my hair and twists it around his finger. ‘I want to see more than the Eiffel Tower twinkle.’

I take a deep breath. ‘As much as I love my attic, this apartment is brilliant.’ I want to run wild and whoop around this new space.

‘When we finish bringing down your things, Sassy, I’ll hang some art.’

***

I watch him hang a huge oil on the living room wall.

‘“The Four Seasons of Paris”,’ he says with a sweep of his hand, ‘a Raphael Valentine original.’

I stand on tiptoe and kiss his cheek. ‘OhMyGod. It’s stunning.’ It’s a polyptych, four gorgeous gold-edged panels. Pink flowered trees line the in spring with us sitting on a bench facing the Eiffel Tower; the Hotel de Ville beach with our easily recognizable figures embracing after playing volleyball represents summer; autumn leaves fall near the Pont des Arts where we’re picnicking on a golden rug; winter sees me wearing a long red coat walking through the snow beside the Seine towards Raphael. I’ve yet to experience a Paris spring or winter. Winter is coming. I hope it’s as beautiful as his painting promises. I’d better buy a red coat.

‘You don’t mind me choosing art for you?’ Raphael squeezes my shoulder.

My eyes flicker from panel to panel then back again. ‘Not at all. This,’ I hold out my hand, ‘is truly amazing.’ I wrap my arm around his waist. ‘I’m impressed how the brush work is more Monet than Dali, but I see a glimpse of Klimt’s “Woman in Gold” in your metallic rendition of summer.’

He grins. ‘Maybe I’m entering my “Golden Phase.” I love the way Klimt used gold, which is how I see you, my love, pure gold. You’ll be my Adele Bloch-Bauer 1.’ He spins me around and kisses me. He takes my hand and leads me to the chaise longue with its red velvet and gold trim.

 ‘This chaise is my favorite piece of furniture. I’ve used it to pose my muses. Just kidding.’ He sits me on the chaise and I have fun reclining like a glamorous muse against the padded end, fluffing out my long blonde hair, one arm behind my head. ‘You’re my muse, Sassy. I’m inspired to paint like never before, my own woman in gold.’

Despite my misgivings, how well we’re getting along. I’m his muse. He’s my muse. Inspired by him, I’ll create fashion which will bring Paris to its knees.

How many women are lucky enough to have a lover like Raphael before them on their knees?

 

WORDS: 1014

FCA

Go HERE to read more entries! Or click on my sidebar!

If it's too late for you to be inspired by 'The Kiss', please consider WEP in April for our nest art challenge:

You can see how diverse our challenges are.
Thanks for coming by, reading and commenting,

#IWSG post, February 3, 2021. Launching into the New Year. All about blogging ...

Hello everyone! Welcome to 2021! Is this going to be your year? Do you have exciting things planned? I definitely do and a lot of my plans are thanks to the friendships I've made in the blogging world.

Alex's awesome co-hosts for the February 3 posting of the IWSG are Louise - Fundy Blue , Jennifer Lane, Mary Aalgaard, Patsy Collins at Womagwriter, and Nancy Gideon!
  Be sure to visit the
Insecure Writer’s Support Group Website!!!
February 3 question - Blogging is often more than just sharing stories. It’s often the start of special friendships and relationships. Have you made any friends through the blogosphere?
Question:  Have I made any friends through the blogosphere?

Have I made friends in the blogging world? You bet! I've been blogging since 2007 with a travel blog, which morphed into a writing blog. I wonder how many thousands of words I've published here? As Ray Bradbury said and I paraphrase, get the millions of bad words out before you write good words. By taking my time publishing, I hope I've already used up my "bad words".

Which brings me to blogging friends. Wonderful people like Yolanda Renee, Michael di Gesu, Donna Hole, who've all critiqued my work. Then there's Joy Campbell from the old days of blogging who continues to inspire me with her productivity, to Pat Garcia who's a standout friend in the new days of blogging and kindly read my first vampire book and said wonderful things about it.

Those who've been around the blogging world for ages would probably agree that 10 years or so ago was it's Golden Age, where friendships were formed, knowledge was gained, we helped each other by reading each other's work etc etc. 

Many have abandoned the blogging world for the more instant gratification of Facebook, Twitter, Instagram etc etc. I'm on all those, sporadically I admit, but to me I think the time spent blogging is more rewarding. I say that as an unpublished (except for a 2015 vampire novella) author. Maybe I'll change my mind when I throw myself into the frenetic self-publishing world. I'll let you know.

I've yearned to meet these special bloggers. Nas Dean was my earliest blogger friend who invited me to Fiji for 6 weeks to house sit while she and her husband Rajesh traveled to America. While there I wrote a Fijian romance which is rather pathetic but I might pick it up one day. And I wrote a horror story for Entangled Publishing, which was my first attempt at horror and was rejected of course. 

Lynda Young is another blogger I've met. She moved up from Sydney to Brisbane and we met in cafes when we could and encouraged each other to publish. Well, we know Lynda did ...

I've often thought of getting Donna, Michael and Yolanda together, but that would be some task, especially in these days of covid. Australians aren't allowed to travel overseas for starters. Michael and I have talked of meeting in Paris, but that may be a long way into the future now. But blogger friends don't have to see each other face to face to remain friends. Pat Garcia and I tried to organize a meeting when I was in Paris in 2019 and she lives in Germany. Nothing worked out, sadly, but I live in hopes that one day in the future we'll meet. 

Of course, there are many blogger friends I haven't mentioned. You know who you are. There's the WEP team, Olga, Nilanjana, Laura (I've already mentioned Yolanda). There are WEP members who I interact with such as the delightful Elephant's Child, a fellow Aussie who stepped in last year as an admin and helped out when needed. Space does not allow me to sing praises to you all, but know I love and value you, each and every one. 

***

Now here's a friendship group who support each other. The wonderful world of WEP (Write...Edit...Publish) where we have formed many friendships. If you've never written for this online writing community, February would be a good time to start with our first challenge, The Kiss. (All arty prompts for 2021!) See my sidebar!

Thanks for hanging with me. Hopefully see you on February 17 when the WEP entries go live. Be in it to win a critique on your work!


                                                                                                           who will soon be publishing as 

#IWSG post for January 6 - What stops me from finishing reading a book.

 Hi!

Welcome to the January 2021 IWSG posts. Welcome back those who had an hiatus over the holiday season and are now back and raring to go. 

Hope your time off went well. Now we're all back with our insecurities/securities in place. As you trawl the IWSG posts, may you find support and encouragement in great measure.

Alex's awesome co-hosts for the January 6 posting of the IWSG are Ronel Janse van Vuuren , J Lenni Dorner, Gwen Gardner Sandra Cox, and Louise - Fundy Blue! Visit if you can!

I'm going to answer the question this month. And the question is:

Being a writer, when you're reading someone else's work, what stops you from finishing a book/throws you out of the story/frustrates you the most about other people's books?

Life's too short to read bad books. But what makes a book unreadable, toss-across-the-room unreadable is personal to the reader. I've deleted my original post as it sounded judgy from someone who doesn't like to be judged herself, LOL. So I decided to go lite to answer the question.

Here's what turns me off, with an example thrown in here and there:

1)  CHARACTERISATION: After the first few chapters I couldn't care less about the characters and what happens to them - A Casual Vacancy by JK Rowling. Toss!

2)  HORROR OVERLOAD: When I get to Chapter 3-ish and find out that the finely-cooked meat the MC is munching is actually human flesh. Urk. Hangman by Jack Heath. Rubbish collection day came just in time! I don't often destroy a book, but this one had no redeemable qualities.

3)  TO ME, SILLY ROMANCE: Opening paragraph of the heroine oogling the hero's bum. Too common to mention names. Across the room it goes, bringing down a pile of books on the way.

4)  PUBLISHED TOO SOON: The English teacher in me is majorly put off by the murdering of grammar, punctuation and the technical aspects of language. Not everyone has mastered these fine aspects of what makes a story enjoyable (and some argue that grammar etc is overrated - I don't agree), so that's why we have editors. Hold off publishing until you can afford one.

5) DOESN'T DELIVER WHAT COVER/BLURB LED ME TO EXPECT: For example, I have a weakness for books with 'Paris' in the title, but am ticked off when Paris is not actually in the book - it might just be a twinkle in the MC's eye. Let's not tease gullible readers with false promises.

6) STARTING WITH TOO MUCH BACKSTORY. I once began a book where I had to wait till p.45 before anyone spoke. I love dialogue, Danielle Steele. Backstory killed your book and my chances of finishing it.

ENDNOTE:

I haven't been well for awhile -- this too shall pass -- and during this time my brain has been too woolly to write, but I have immersed myself in reading my favorite genre, psychological thrillers (paperback). I even commented on an IWSG FB post recently how I loved this genre, but couldn't imagine writing it. Surprise! I've been plotting in my head then putting ideas on paper and ta da! With my critters' help, soon I'll have a fully fleshed out romantic suspense novel. A new genre for me. I'm looking forward to writing it in such a way no one will throw my book across the room, LOL. And it won't have 'Paris' in the title.

Happy writing all!

If you need motivation to get writing, WEP has gorgeous prompts for 2021. All are in my sidebar. Here is February's:

Thanks for coming by!
                 

#WEP December challenge. Pierrot, the Fool. (Unmasked in Venice).

Hi all!

I have been travelling again and missed the December IWSG. I think it's only about the second time I haven't posted in all the years! Forgive me Alex.

By popular demand, WEP is having an unstructured challenge this December. For those who'd already prepared an entry for UNMASKED or who burned to write one, we have opened it up to whoever so desires and posting our link to the WEP website. 

My story is adapted from one of the very first stories I wrote for Romantic Friday Writers. I'd worked on it since and it was over 2,000 words. For this challenge, I've edited it down to 1,200+ words. So sorry it's a bit over. 

During the pandemic, Australians don't travel internationally. So I'm reliving a trip to Venice. But I assure you, I'm not Anouk, my heroine. It's a bit of a black fairy tale. With this retelling I can see another direction I could go with the story, but seriously, this will have to do for now or I'll never get it posted...enjoy. 

Pierrot, the Fool.

 

Anouk surveyed the glistening city from the balcony of Hotel Cipriani, feasting her eyes upon Venice. Darkness floated over the ethereal city, a black cape, its edges reflecting the glint of the moon. The light was a mosaic of shimmering mirrors. Gondolas floated in a fantasy world, dipping above the water like slick black swans. On the frigid night air, the gondoliers’ serenade drifted across the water like a ghostly siren call, filling Anouk’s heart with delicious anticipation.

Sipping her wine, she listened to the vaporettis' hum as they navigated the icy waters of the Grand Canal, disembodied voices of the passengers bouncing atop the waves. The baroque palaces along the canal dazzled, grand residences of past glory, now inhabited by revelers whose dancing threatened to sink them into the murky water.

Anouk was intent on enjoying this night and all the excitement that tantalized her soul with infinite possibilities. Carnevale. Hiding behind a mask, she was ready to lose herself in this ritual where the power of the mask lured revelers into lurid rites of celebration.

She lifted her crystal glass. Swirled the rich burgundy. ‘Salut!’ She toasted the heavenly hosts.

Her dream was about to unfold.

 

~*~

 

Anouk drifted outside into a frosty, starry world, a different person behind her Pierrot mask. She was tugged into a band of masked and costumed figures running through the cobbled streets, alongside the Grand Canal, past candle-lit icing-cake palazzos dusted with snow, slithering over arched bridges, heading deeper into mysterious caverns and back alleyways.

In an opulent baroque apartment, she danced with gloriously attired masked men who pressed her close to their bodies, their breath hot on her naked neck, before passing her to the next caped stranger with a flourish and an extravagant kiss to her gloved hand.

Leaving the hot apartment, she ran with the party goers down slippery, dimly-lit streets, going deeper and deeper into unknown Venice, terrifying in its other-worldly quality. She slipped and slithered at the end of the long line, her dress tugging at her ankles as if telling her to stop.

She was about to turn back when out of the foggy darkness came a man who clasped her hand. She stood, unsure whether to rip her hand from his grasp, but the crowd moved on, leaving her alone in the stranger’s grip. She recognized the perfume he wore. Creed Aventus. Her husband’s favorite. It comforted her. Was she a fool to go with this stranger in his lacquered mask of ebony? She shrugged. This was what adventure was all about, wasn’t it?

The stranger led her upstairs to an apartment where they joined a new group of dancers in a room warmed by spluttering fires, the air blue with cigarette smoke. The women were ethereal beauties in rustling silk while men dazzled in capes, tight trousers, shiny thigh-high boots and magnificent wigs of black ringlets. His curls whispering against her neck, she and the stranger swayed in a sideways rhythm to the heavenly music of a stringed quartet.  

She closed her eyes and imagined the stranger unmasked. The way he ran his hands over her forehead, lifting her hair, told her he was doing the same.

So this is Carnevale! Oh, what have I been missing?

The stranger snatched a glass of wine from a passing waiter. He entwined his arm with hers and poured wine down her throat.

She spluttered as rich liquor dripped down her chin and between her breasts.

He dipped his head; licked the red trail. Her delighted shivers brought fire to his eyes.

He spoke his first words to her, his Italian rich and smooth as the wine. ‘Signorina, I’m Count de Rozario.’

‘Vrai? Truly?’

‘Si. All men are counts at Carnevale.’

She bowed, not doubting his claim. ‘I am Anouk Abbe. From Paris.’

‘My servant.’ He touched her shoulder with his hand.

Her heart fluttered with desire. She looked up. He had melted into the night. How rude! Was that what Carnevale was about? Dancing? Drinking? Touching? Teasing? Then … pouf?

She pushed her way outside, trudging north through freshly fallen snow.

Men lounged against alleyway walls; smoke blended with foggy curls. Shiny black opal eyes studied her from behind black masks.

She stepped sideways, desperate to find the Grand Canal.

One of the men strode forward just as another appeared from out of the mist. 

Again the comforting smell of Creed Aventus.

He covered her shivering body with his black velvet cloak trimmed with red fur, revealing a black woolen suit. With gloved fingers, he scratched away tears that had iced her cheeks below her mask.

‘My count?’ Her teeth chattered.

An imperceptible jerk of his head. ‘Come. We steal a little time.’

Through passages, beneath arches, they came upon a magnificent doorway. In the hazy light of the street lamps it appeared burnished in gold.

He brushed snow from their clothing before he led her up a flight of stairs into a luxurious apartment. With urgent strides he tugged her into a warm sitting room with log fire blazing, comfortable couches, an aura of expectation in the atmosphere. Two crystal wine glasses and a silver platter of antipasto beckoned. How sweet! Mesmerized by the warmth of the flames, she took a step toward the fire.

‘Fretta! Hurry!’ He snatched her around the waist and pulled her into a huge bedroom dazzled by moonlight, a lush Renaissance painting of red silk wallpaper, brocade and golden trims.

He unbuttoned her cape. Her dress rustled to the floor. He dealt swiftly with her undergarments but left her mask intact.

Even so, she felt unmasked.

He pushed her backwards onto the brocade spread, covering her nakedness with his.

As they surrendered themselves to the madness of the night, the mouth that plundered hers tasted like the wine they’d shared, enhanced by sea and smoke.

He tensed, lifted his head. 

She heard nothing but her own whimpering.

Then …  

Slipping and sliding on the varnished wood stairs. Curse words, ‘Merda. Merda. Basta.’

His feet landed on the floor. ‘My blonde beauty.’ He tugged her arm. ‘My Contessa approaches. Presto!’

He snatched clothes from the carpet, thrust them into her arms and pushed her naked onto the balcony then quietly closed the door.

Shivering with cold and shock, she huddled. The lapping water against the pylons was slaps to her freezing stupid face. The fog’s tendrils reached up and whirled around her misery.

Fool! Fool! Is this the adventure you imagined?

The Contessa’s Borsalino fragrance hung, trapped, in the freezing air. My perfume. Is that why he chose me?

‘Ah, Contessa, come.’ His seductive voice slid under the bedroom door onto the balcony. ‘I’m ready for you. Desolate we lost each other in the frenzy.’

‘I, too, Count.’ Her voice sounded a little self-satisfied. ‘Come.’

Had the Contessa been naked with a stranger in another bed? While the Count cavorted here with her? Was it a game they played on this one night of the year when there were no rules?

Tears pooling on her frozen cheeks, she struggled down the murky outdoor stairs, slipping and sliding on the ice, gripping the ornate balustrade. She entered the apartment foyer and trembled in the darkest corner. Her frozen hands fumbled with intricate clasps and zips as she dressed herself with agonizing slowness.

As she dressed, she pictured her husband back in Paris, sipping his aperitif in his favorite leather chair by the fire, wearing his three-piece charcoal bespoke suit, his crisp white Dior shirt, his Louis Vuitton tie. He’d warned her not to come. Now she knew why.

Tossing her Pierrot mask into a dirty pile of slush, she tread into the frozen wilderness. Lost in Venice's black cape.

She was Pierrot, the fool.

~*~

Currently up on the WEP website is Yolanda's post outlining the magnificent arty challenges for 2021. Please take a look. I'm sure you'll be inspired to join us even if you've never written for us. This is an example:

Gorgeous, innit?

Happy holidays! See you next year!

 

#IWSG November - Jemi Fraser - Pros and Cons of her publishing schedule

Hello all and welcome to the monthly write-fest that is the IWSG. Here you'll find motivation to overcome your insecurities, learn more about the writing journey, and learn the varied methods of publishing.

Alex's awesome co-hosts for the November 4 posting of the IWSG are Jemi Fraser, Kim Lajevardi, L.G Keltner, Tyrean Martinson, and Rachna Chhabria!

  Be sure to visit them and the 
Insecure Writer’s Support Group Website!!!

Once again, I've invited a guest to take over my blog. Today Jemi Fraser returns. Yes, I'm obsessed just a little with publication stories and have been from when I began blogging in 2007. I see Jemi as a pioneer as she's published the way I intend to - "now you don't see me, now you do" kinda thing! Anyway, to help other sly writers who have a truckload of books they've been writing, editing, rewriting for YEARS, I've asked Jemi to talk about the pros and cons of publishing the rapid-release way!

Over to you, Jemi! 

Thanks for having me on your fabulous blog again, Denise!

 I’m going to twist the IWSG question a bit today…Why do you publish the way you publish?

Phew! 

2020 has been a weird and wacky year in so many ways. Which means it was probably the perfect year for me to enter the publishing world in my own weird and wacky way.

 

In January 2020 I decided this was the year I was going to publish both my nonfiction book and my romance series.

 

I set up pre-order dates for Dancing With Dementiaand arranged a blog tour for the end of March. You know, when the pandemic really hit.

 

It was early days in the pandemic and people were thinking we’d be more or less normal by June or July. I picked a date to release my romance series at the end of July.

I decided to release 3 books at once and then another before the end of the year. Bloo Moose has been living in my head for a while. Because I was writing a series, to me there wasn’t much point in releasing one book then waiting for a few months before releasing another. I wanted to have something else for readers to read if they liked Reaching For Normal(it’s free!).

 

I wanted Book 4 (Reaching For Balance) out before the end of the year - preferably within 3 months of the first 3. Apparently this is good for visibility on some retailers.

 

While I was finalizing 4, Book 5 started yelling at me. It was supposed to be book 6 but it changed its mind and decided it wanted to be a Christmas story.

 

Hmm.

 

Christmas stories sell best before Christmas so I decided November 10 looked like a good date. Four weeks after book 4.

 

I did mention weird and wacky, right?

 

What have been the pros and cons of my publishing schedule?

 

Cons:

•   Exhaustion (I’m also providing daily child care for family)

•   Imposter Syndrome is Strong! (who am I to think people want to read my stories?)

•   Marketing and Promo? Who has time for that?

•   Pressure to keep up the pace (spoiler alert: probably not publishing 6 books in 2021!)

 

Pros

•   Not a whole lot of time to do things like checking numbers and rankings and reviews

•   There has been some reader buy-through of the series

•   I’ve had people tell me they are excited about the series and waiting for more! (yay!!!)

•   Readers are preordering

•   Pushing myself to really focus means even more stories and ideas are knocking on my skull

•   I love my Bloo Moose folks and getting to spend time with them is fun

•   I have 2 new series ideas waiting their turn (con = they’re impatient & time is limited)

•   I have 6 books out and about in the world!!!

 

Would I do it all again? Yes! Although I’d wish for less global pandemic and more time!

 

How about you? Anyone else save up their books to publish them together? Anyone else start publishing during the pandemic? Anyone figure out how to create more time yet?

Life is short - go for the HEA! Author of Contemporary Romance (Bloo Moose), Dancing With Dementia (nonfiction), and short/flash fiction. Variety is the spice after all!

Thanks Jemi! Let's give Jemi your reactions to her post. Or...share your own pros and cons of publishing in the comments!

Seeing you're here ... think about joining us at WEP for the Christmas challenge, UNMASKED. 

Thanks!
On behalf of the WEP team -

#WEP October Challenge - GRAVE MISTAKE - #flashfiction - Be Careful What You Wish For - Paranormal Romance

Hello there!

Here's my entry for the WEP prompt for October, GRAVE MISTAKE. I've expanded a vampire tale I wrote for the A - Z Challenge in conjunction with the WEP team.

Be Careful What You Wish For

 

The hazy moon hovered in the inky sky, watching the shenanigans below. Two shadowy figures ran together, weaving through trees and undergrowth in the perfect silence of the night.

Her name was Enya. His was Julius.

‘Let’s go to our favorite place.’ Julius pointed deeper into the forest, where a scarcely-used track led away from what passed for a highway on the island.

‘Oh let’s. I feel the need for some excitement.’ Enya tugged his arm and dragged him under an overhanging branch.

Through the piles of musky leaves they ran, hummus flying around their feet. They jumped over huge tree trunks bent and broken through years of storm and wind.

In no time at all they reached their special stream. Stopping, they knelt and played the game. Pushing their faces close to the water, they tried, they really did. But no. Nothing. No image. No reflection. No chance of being Narcissus. Do I even exist? Enya plunged her face into the water. ‘Ohuhuh…aagh...’ Electricity shot through her body. Julius clutched her and held her while she trembled with shock.

When the trembling ceased, Enya sighed. ‘Perhaps one day I’ll see myself again.’ She bent down and scooped up a handful of shimmering water and let it trail through her fingers. A distant memory triggered of drinking from clear and sparkling waters in the hills on the little Shetland island she called home. She might be slowly forgetting what she looked like, but she’d not forgotten the past and the events that had brought her to a place where her reflection didn't reflect.

She’d made a grave mistake.

Julius wrapped his arm around her shoulder and drew her upright. That night when everything changed came rushing back with such power she felt her head would burst.

 

She was out with her crowd. Her boyfriend hovered attentively, plying her with her favorite white sauvignon blanc until the rough edges of her dissatisfaction blurred.

‘Why are you so unhappy?' He'd asked. 'What more could you want? Your life is perfect.'

Over the rim of her glass, she saw him. The stranger. He stood out from the raggedy crowd in his Savile Row suit and designer haircut. He oozed grooming and glamour. What she wanted.

And excitement. He oozed excitement from every pore.

She had the eerie feeling he saw right through her. He saw her boredom with her ho-hum life on the island, her desire for genuine thrills. Obviously he was "big city". Glasgow? London? Maybe he’d rescue her. Maybe he was her knight in shining armour. Over his shoulder, she watched the rain batter against the window panes of the pub. Some was rain, some was seawater from the waves coming clear across the harbor wall and crashing against the glass. The island knew how to put on a display of weather. Looking back, she realized it was an omen of dire things to come.

The stranger granted her wish. Rescued her from her life.

She thought it was part of the game when he ran her from the pub, covering her with his fancy cloak and took her driving into the forest in his sleek black Maserati. She’d never seen such a car. She was used to clanking old tractors driven by dour farmers. She thought it was part of the game when he drew her close and pushed away her long curls and kissed her neck while he murmured endearments and threaded his fingers through her hair until her whole body shivered. She thought it was part of the game when she felt a strange sensation where his lips touched her skin. But she knew it wasn’t a game when his teeth moved over her throat. And bit.

Panic, sheer panic coursed through her. Her heart hammered. Her throat burned. Her body trembled.

It was too late. The myths about strange creatures who lurked on the island were true. Why had she dismissed them like she dismissed everything else about her home ...

 

                                     

Finally, Enya and Julius reached the soft grasses where it’d happened.

It was as if it were yesterday. Niccolo, the stranger, turned his Maserati into the bush and turned her into a creature of the night. ‘Come, my lifeless bride. Come away with me. Be mine eternally.’

‘Remember?’ Julius took her in his arms and trailed kisses down her neck.

‘I remember.’

Julius had followed them into the forest in his old beat up Toyota.

He’d wrenched open the Maserati door and dragged Niccolo outside.

Niccolo had spung up, pounded a fist into Julian’s temple. While he lay unconscious, and while Enya lay inert inside the car, Niccolo had drunk from Julian too. He'd followed her into the Otherworld, away from her island. 

That was Niccolo’s grave mistake ...

‘You reap what you sow,’ Julius said, kissing the top of her head.

 'Payback.’ Enya smiled to herself as the forest wrapped her in its arms. When Julius grew in vampire strength, he’d overpowered Niccolo and disappeared into the night with his love, Enya. To return to the island they loved.

‘I never want to leave this island.’ Enya looked deep into Julius’s eyes. What had seemed boring and ho-hum, was now exciting and fresh. Every day brought a new wonder.

She saw herself in the villagers. She watched their comings and goings. Did she envy them their short mortal lives? She wasn’t sure. This was her new reality. She must embrace it.

It was like a song in her head:  

 

For your grave mistake
You can't save yourself
Or save your soul
You can't save yourself

Rage, scorn, misery
What’s the point?
Let hope, love, sanity
fill your days

  Here's to believing in ghosts
When you look into my face, you'll know.
Image Dreamstime

WORDS: 956FCA
I hope you enjoyed my ghostly little flash. To read more, go to the Write...Edit...Publish website or click on names in my sidebar.
If you can't join us for October, think about joining us for December. The prompt is:


Thanks for coming by.

#IWSG October - Guest Post - Jemima Pett - Chapter Illustrations in books

 Hi all!

For IWSG month, I have another treat for you today. Jemima Pett. 

Alex's awesome co-hosts for the October 7 posting of the IWSG are Jemima Pett, Beth Camp, Beverly Stowe McClure, and Gwen Gardner!

  Be sure to visit the
Insecure Writer’s Support Group Website!!!

Illustrations in books (not just picture books) is something I like and as a soon-to-be-self-published author, something I'd like to incorporate in the formatting. I always appreciate it when authors have little chapter graphics and when short stories have an illustration to introduce each story. More work, but worth it. And I have an addiction to castles like Jemima. My Renaissance vampire series has castles all over it!

I've never read a blog post about adding illustrations (not saying that there's been none!) I hope you enjoy the post today and find it helpful if you're like minded.

Over to you, Jemima!

Thank you, Denise. 

It’s an honour to be here today. I may get around to answering the IWSG question of the month...it depends… 

As an author, the question I often get asked is: 

Why do I do chapter illustrations for my books? 

Believe me, most times when I finish editing a book, I ask the same question. I have about 24 chapters, and I have to do illustrations for them, simply because I did in the first book. Talk about a rod for your own back! When I was little, all my favourite books had illustrations of some kind. E H Shephard did the Winnie the Pooh and the Wind in the Willows ones. They add something special to a children’s/middle grade readers’ book. And gives the reader a break! 

The Princelings of the East 

My series, The Princelings of the East, is set in a country very like the UK, but with small communities with castles ruling over them. Inter-castle rivalry is everywhere! 

 I started to take an interest in the design and structure of castles (there are loads in England!), and unearthed a prize I’d won at school which was a children’s Guide to Castles and Cathedrals! My Geography teacher must have been prescient. 

So I wanted to draw these castles as part of the setting for the books. Maybe it helped me not describe them at tedious length. 

What style? 

Wanting to draw something and doing it are two different things. For a start, do you want simple elegance and style like E H Shepherd, or something more draughtsmanlike, for the castles? I ended up somewhere between the two. 

Over the course of the books the illustrations got better, they settled into a certain style, and I learned how to put them into ebooks more efficiently. 

Images in Ebooks - the old days (c2011-12)

Images in ebooks are not straightforward. The Smashwords Style Guide gave me half the information I needed for Kindle books (all I needed for Smashwords, iTunes and the rest). 

The key to placing images in your ebook is to paste it into your document as an INLINE IMAGE.  No fancy cropping and wrapping the words round. Place it between two paragraphs using the inline setting. 

A technical issue which I had with Kindle for years, was that a jpg didn’t work properly. Kindle liked colour jpegs but not black and white. I found this hidden in the KDP help stuff during my third book launch. It liked black and white as GIFs. Since these are also small sized files, it helped the overall size of the ebooks. 

Modern ebooks (2018 onwards) 

I get ebooks with illustrations in them which don’t appreciate the complexity of an ebook file. I read a great book recently which had a shell for all the paragraph splitters. That’s where most people might use a wee graphic in their fiction, I think. 

This book also had some lovely two-page spread pictures. Kindle shows one page at a time. Even my iPad didn’t guarantee to get the whole of the spread on a two-page view, because the left half might be on the right hand page! 

The quality of images that you can use for advanced Kindles, iPads and tablets is far better than it used to be - photo quality in fact. What if your reader is using an older Kindle, like Paperwhite or earlier, or on their phone…? 

But they can handle colour, just maybe not display it.

My process 

Using a pad of reasonable quality drawing paper, and some soft pencils, I’d get an idea for a chapter, and start sketching. Once I was happy, I’d draw in the lines I wanted with a black ink pen. I use a three size set of Pilot Drawing Pens. They’ve been great. 

The next step is to rub out (erase) the pencil sketch. How many times have I forgotten to do that? In some of the illustrations you can see the pencil marks still. 

Then it gets tedious. Scan them in, making sure all the bits from the rubbing out were off the page and the scanner clean…. One at a time. Get them the right size and dots per inch (dpi) in the scanner software. Crop if necessary. And eventually, put them into the MS file in the right place. Crop them again. Reduce the file size… the list seems endless. 

Then there was iPad 

Around 2017 I got an iPad, and an iPen soon after. Like anything new, it takes practice. I gave up trying to do the 8th and 9th book drawings on them. But I did play with illustrations for some shorter stories I’d worked on, and tried out colourised versions of them too. The versions of book 8’s Rannoch Moor chapter worked quite well, I think.

 

But for the last book in the series, I did them all on the iPad. I hit new snags of course. For ages I could not rub out something I’d done a few days earlier. 

Eventually whatever I was doing started to work. I could find them again, and go over them with a different idea. 

I started with the same line drawing style, but then I discovered the airbrush effect, so a lot of them had airbrush shadows and clouds. 

It really helps when you want to both extend a castle and destroy it later in the plot! Instead of copying the detail by hand, which I did with two views of Vexstein in book 7, now I could just copy the file and erase or draw on top. I did the images in record time, and saved at least two days on the scanning and cropping part of it. 

I’m not an artist 

I think my readers like the drawings. I hope they do. I enjoy doing them, although sometimes I really think my ambition outweighs my ability. Plucking up the courage to do a new version of the inn was hard, but it really, really needed it! 

I’m not an illustrator. I’m a keen amateur painter who has sold a few pictures. I do not want to illustrate someone else’s books. But putting my own mind’s eye onto the page, that has given me great pleasure, both in words and pictures. 

So if you fancy illustrating your own books, don’t be put off. If you think they are good enough, it’s part of the charm of your book that the author has also illustrated. Go for it! 

There. Another thing for Insecure Writers to worry about! 

Jemima Pett 

Jemima Pett has been writing books since she was eight and designing fantasy islands at ten. Not seeing a career in fantasy island design, she went down the science route at school, and ended up in a business career, which was good for writing manuals and memos. Eventually she retrained and went into environmental research, where she could write articles and papers. 

 She started writing fiction because her guinea pigs told her to, and she’s been writing the story they inspired ever since. She also has a biography and a science fiction series to her name. The final book of the Princelings series is Princelings Revolution, released on 1st October. The cover is by a professional illustrator, Dani English at Kanizo Art.

Follow Jemima on her blog jemimapett.com, on Twitter, on Facebook, on Amazon, on Goodreads.  

Princelings Revolution 

The planes are crashing, the people are angry at the changes and shortages. King Fred puts democracy to the test and finds it’s not all it’s cracked up to be.  There’s an organised anti-monarchy group called the Causists, and they are spreading false information which the people seem to believe. Things are bad—but they are going to get worse… 

Will he even keep his head, let alone the promise made to Lord Mariusz at the start of the whole adventure? 

Buy the paperback or ebook at Amazon, iTunes, B&N, and Kobo.

Add to your Goodreads list.

This guest appearance is part of the Princelings Revolution Launch Tour.  Click the badge to go to the tour list and Giveaway (closes 23rd October).

Thank so much Jemima for appearing today. I'm actually travelling the wide state of Queensland in a caravan (the new cruise ships apparently), so I'll check in when I can.
Here's the badge for GRAVE MISTAKE - courtesy of Olga Godim, WEP's badge maker extraordinaire! Meanwhile, have a great month (and I hope it includes writing something for the WEP October challenge, GRAVE MISTAKE. It's always our biggest meet of the year so bring on those stories or poems!