Nicole Zoltack's Blog, page 31

Frequent Traveller Book Blast

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In conjunction, with the launch of MoonStar Luxury's new website (http://moonstarluxury.com/), we invite you to step into Cathy Dixon's world where more goodies, surprises and a little mystery awaits.





Frequent Traveller, the first book in the Cathy Dixon series will be free from 31 May to 4 June 2012. (Amazon link http://www.amazon.com/Frequent-Traveller-Cathy-Dixon-ebook/dp/B0067BKK6K)





Giveaway Details - 11 winners

Grand prize 1 x $50 Amazon.com voucher

10 x $5 Amazon.com vouchers





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Question of the Week - Death

Credit for picture

Would you like to know the day you’re going to die ahead of time? Why or why not?

 

I don't think I want to know. I would obsess about it and not enjoying what time I have left.

Interview with Deborah J. Lightfoot and WATERSPELL Book 1: The Warlock G*veaway

Tell us your latest
news.




The last book
in the trilogy, WATERSPELL Book 3: The
Wisewoman, has just hit the shelves. The paperback came out in April, and
the Kindle edition is up at Amazon. Trailing behind both is the Nook e-book.
Barnes & Noble is way slow.




Also, I’ll be
signing books and doing readings June 22–24 at the Roswell International
Sci-Fi Festival (Ros-Con). Readers and fans of fantasy will discover much
to love in Roswell, New Mexico. If it fits your summer travel plans, please
join me there!




When did you first
consider yourself a writer?




I can’t
remember when I wasn’t writing. No
one in my family was a talker. I grew up surrounded by the proverbial strong,
silent type. For me, writing always came more naturally than talking. I wrote letters
to relatives, kept a diary, did “on-the-spot reporting” for family newsletters.
In school, I didn’t dread writing essays or reports. At college I majored in
wildlife science, but eventually switched to journalism when it became clear
that jobs were scarce for park rangers and wildlife biologists. After
graduation, I worked as a magazine editor and feature writer. My first three
books (history and biography) grew out of research I did for magazine articles.




So maybe the
question is: When did I get brave enough to switch from nonfiction to fiction?
I wasn’t sure I could write fiction. For a long time, I didn’t try. I suspected
that writing fiction would be all-consuming: Once I started, I wouldn’t be able
to do anything except write the story that bubbled up inside.




That’s exactly
what happened. After my third book of nonfiction was published, I dedicated
myself to writing the WATERSPELL trilogy. It ruled my life. For more than 10
years, I did almost nothing except work and worry and sweat over my novels.
Writing is fun, that’s true. But it’s also incredibly hard work when a writer
pushes herself to discover and achieve all that she’s truly capable of.




What inspired you to
write your book?




The WATERSPELL
story has been percolating since I was a teenager, or younger. Everything a
writer reads, experiences, learns, or enjoys will influence her writing.
Growing up, I read English Lit: Alice in
Wonderland, Pride and Prejudice, Jane Eyre, The Once and Future King. I
also devoured Edgar Allan Poe. Among my favorite SF/F authors were Anne
McCaffrey (Dragonriders of Pern) and
Andre Norton (Witch World). When I
wasn’t reading, I was outdoors communing with nature. WATERSPELL reflects all
these influences and more. It’s a sword-and-sorcery tale with a
science-fictional twist. And between my two central characters—homeless Carin
and dangerous Lord Verek—a romance blossoms. At first, their relationship may
seem unlikely. But by the end of the trilogy, neither can imagine life without
the other.




Maybe that’s a
metaphor for the relationship between WATERSPELL and myself. It may seem
unlikely that someone who once wrote history and biography (books with
footnotes! books that some called scholarly) has produced an intricate,
multilayered, romantic fantasy. But now that Book 3: The Wisewoman has been published, it feels inevitable. I
wrote the story I had to write, and now I hardly remember what my life was
like, pre-WATERSPELL.




Do you have a specific writing style?




I know what I strive for: sharp, clear details; lots
of action; a proper pace (mostly fast but with slower parts as needed); and
realistic, sympathetic, believable characters. I know that verbs are a writer’s
best friends and I try to use them well. A carefully chosen verb can convey as
much as a paragraph!




A literary
agent said of my work: “I was very impressed with the tautness of your writing—your
avoidance of clichés, your fresh similes, your strong verb choices. You also
seem to have an innate sense of rhythm, as well as a solid sense of when to
employ intentional repetition and when to avoid it.”




If I had to
describe my style in a single word, “Brontian” might work. I greatly admire Charlotte
Bronte’s Jane Eyre and Emily’s Wuthering Heights. My leading man, Lord
Verek, owes aspects of his personality to Heathcliff and Rochester. And in
Carin are echoes of a famously strong female character: Jane Eyre. Writers are
shaped by what we read.




How did you come
up with the title?




Stand beside a
thundering waterfall, walk in the rain, or listen to ocean waves pound the
shore, and you’ll fall under a “water spell.” Water is magical. In the
mythologies of many cultures, rivers and other bodies of water are sacred.
Fantastical beings live in water: mermaids, sirens, the Lady of the Lake. In my
story too, water has magical properties. For my characters, water is both a
portal and a source of power. At one point my emotionally scarred sorcerer,
Verek, says to his lady love, when he thinks he may lose her: “Here is water …
I have seen that you need only that to make your magic. I expect you can go
back to your world today, if that is what you wish to do.”




Carin (she’s a
Pisces) is in her element in water. Scorpio is also a water sign, and Verek is the
quintessential Scorpio: dangerous, secretive, proud but loyal, and passionate. The
“water” in the title reflects the oceanic symbolism in my trilogy.




Is there
a message in your novel that you want
readers to grasp?




The subtext is
that things which are harmless or even benign in one setting may cause great
harm in an environment where they are alien. I’ve watched imported fire ants
drive out native species like horned lizards—fire ants will kill young lizards
and even the adults. Rats introduced into Hawaii threaten the native flora and
fauna. West Nile virus has spread across North America. Every summer we hear of
people and horses dying from it. I could go on and on: Pythons in the
Everglades. Here where I live, kudzu, “the plant that ate the South.” The point
is that a nonnative, invasive species can devastate an environment, creating a
catastrophic natural disaster.




That’s what
happens in WATERSPELL: Our heroine, Carin, is shanghaied from her natural home
by a wysard who doesn’t grasp the
enormity of the ecological damage the magical kidnapping will inflict upon a
medieval world. The kidnapping triggers a series of plagues that threaten to
destroy civilization. Nature is badly out of whack, and it is up to my leading
lady and her man—Carin and Lord Verek—to restore balance.




What books
have most influenced your life?




I fell under
the spell of the English Lit I read as a child. Although I grew up on the Great
Plains of the United States, books allowed me to spend a big part of my early
life on the Yorkshire moors.




Also I must
credit the science fiction/fantasy novels of Barbara Hambly. To quote her
Wikipedia profile: “Although magic exists in many of her settings, it is not
used as an easy solution but follows rules and takes energy from the wizards.”
That’s my approach, too. In the world of WATERSPELL, magic is NOT easy.




The books of
Barbara Hambly were my trigger. It was while reading her Sun-Cross books that I decided I, too, could write fantasy. I
recognized something in her style that spoke to my own writerly inclinations. Reading
her work gave me confidence in myself. Thank you, Barbara!




If you had to choose, which writer would you consider
a mentor?




Actually, my
choice for mentor would be Mr. L.H. Blocker, my high school English teacher. He
was tough to the point of ferocity. Very demanding. And scary. He taught me
respect for the English language.




My mentors today
are my critique partners and beta readers. With some, I’ve done long-distance
manuscript exchanges. I’ve joined others for leisurely strolls in the park,
during which we work out the kinks in our muscles as well as our stories. Twice
monthly, my fabulous critique group meets for concentrated work on one
another’s manuscripts. I am lucky to have many professional writers and talented
editors in my life, and from them all I constantly learn. They’ve helped me identify my strengths
and weaknesses.




What book
are you reading now?




Oh gracious!
So many to choose from. On my Nook I’ve got Kenilworth
by Sir Walter Scott, Graceling by
Kristin Cashore, The Complete Works of Jack London, The Year of the Flood and Oryx
and Crake by Margaret Atwood, An
Antarctic Mystery: A Sequel to Edgar Allan Poe's The Narrative of Arthur Gordon
Pym by Jules Verne, and scores of others. When my life settles down a
little and I actually get time to
read, I will probably start Graceling
next. One editor said my story reminded her of Graceling.




Are there any new authors who have grabbed your interest?




Because I
don’t want to be subconsciously influenced, I tend not to read many contemporary
authors. Mostly I read the classics. I understand that Graceling is a debut novel, making Kristin Cashore the first new
author I will have read recently.




What are your current
projects?




My work in
progress is called “Out of Mind.” It’s a story of the paranormal set in the
American West of the far future. I’ve also got a collection of short stories
that I’m trying to shape up for publication.




Can you share a little of your current
work with us?




Gladly! :-)
Here’s the opening scene of “Out of Mind.”




Vapors billowed into the chamber in thick masses of orange.
Devin choked on the sickly sweet odor.

"Don't fight it, child," came the voice--equally
cloying--from the darkness beyond the gas chamber. "Give yourself up to
it."

The gas surged into Devin's face, blinding, gagging her. She
made it go away. With a flash of her will, a mental reflex, she flung it back.

Cool, fresh air flooded her nostrils and drove out the syrupy
stink. She sucked in a clean breath.

"No!" the voice snapped. "You must not."

The therapist dropped her with fifty thousand volts. Devin
collapsed to the floor, her body jerking, nerves on fire. The pain was beyond
enduring. A pain this intense must be lethal. As she convulsed, her muscles in
spasms, she could not scream. No part of her being, not even her voice, was
under her voluntary control.

"Try it again, child," said her therapist, saccharine
once more. The shock ended, the pain faded. "Stand up. And this time, do
not fight it. Or your punishment will be the same: swift, sure, and severe."

Devin struggled upright. She had to brace against the wall of
the gas chamber to keep on her feet. Her muscles were jelly.

An orange cloud flooded the chamber and filled her nose with the
stink of rotting fruit. "Breathe it," her therapist instructed.
"You must."

But again, Devin reacted by instinct alone. No conscious thought
interposed between stimulus and response. The cloud approached; she pushed it
away. Pure reflex, action of mind: act of self-preservation. The gas held back,
suspended in midair, kept at bay solely by her force of will.

On the instant, fifty thousand volts knocked her to the floor.
The pain that must be lethal, but that wouldn't do her the service of killing
her, flooded Devin's tortured flesh. She writhed, silent and barely conscious.

Her therapist withdrew the punishment. Devin remained on the
floor, curled in the fetal position. Her body was hers to command once more,
but her muscles had no strength to obey.

"You give new meaning to the word persistent, don't
you, girl?" muttered the disembodied voice. Then, more forcefully:
"The first step toward healing is to admit you are diseased. Miss
Perridin, you have an illness. A mental disorder. I am offering you the cure
for your illness--in a pleasant aerosol spray that you need only breathe. Once
inhaled, the drug acts quickly. But you must take the first step and
acknowledge that you want to be cured."

The voice grew soft, sugary. "Child, for as long as you
hold to the notion--the mistaken notion--that your disorder is in some way a benefit
to you, you will continue to fail. And you will suffer the consequences of that
failure. We can't have that, can we?"

Devin gathered the remnants of her strength and rolled onto her
back. To stand was impossible; she could barely shape a word. "No," she
whispered. She wasn't speaking to her tormentor.




Is there
anything you find particularly challenging in your writing?




Wordiness! I’m
on a perpetual quest to eliminate unnecessary words. Time and again in
revising, I look for cuts. I’ll share a “finished” chapter with my critique
partners and almost invariably they’ll tell me to tighten it. I love words and
enjoy using them: “Succinct” is not my natural state. Multiple passes are
required to tighten my manuscripts.




Who is your favorite
author and what is it
that really strikes you about their work?




Ursula K. Le
Guin leaves me breathless. Her characters are so real. Her settings jump off the page. Here’s an example from the
prologue of The Tombs of Atuan, the
second book of Earthsea:




“Come home, Tenar! Come home!”

In the deep valley, in the twilight, the apple trees were on the
eve of blossoming; here and there among the shadowed boughs one flower had
opened early, rose and white, like a faint star. Down the orchard aisles, in
the thick, new, wet grass, the little girl ran for the joy of running; hearing
the call she did not come at once, but made a long circle before she turned her
face towards home. The mother waiting in the doorway of the hut, with the
firelight behind her, watched the tiny figure running and bobbing like a bit of
thistledown blown over the darkening grass beneath the trees.




* * *




Isn’t that
beautiful? And more than beautiful, it’s clear and evocative, filled with
precise details that pull readers in, putting us in that deep valley, in the twilight, with the thick, wet grass
under our bare feet. Ursula Le Guin is an inspiration to me. Every few years I
reread her Earthsea books.




What was
the hardest part of writing your book?




Getting past
Chapter 1 of Book One. I wasted months, or a year, fiddling with Chapter 1.
Finally I cried aloud in frustration and charged ahead, to complete Book One,
then Two, and eventually Three. It wasn’t until I finished WATERSPELL Book 3: The Wisewoman that I really understood the
layers of the story. At that point I began again from the beginning. With my
fresh, new, clear-eyed grasp of the whole complex series of events and all the
characters’ relationships, I was able to fine-tune the trilogy and declare, at
last, that it was finished.




How long does it take you to
write a book?




Years. Books 1
and 2 of WATERSPELL took about five
years each. Book 3 went faster—maybe two years—because I’d learned enough by
then that I could avoid my earlier mistakes. For one thing, I’d learned to
write spare! It’s MUCH easier to flesh out spare writing than to tighten
verbose writing.




What is your work
schedule like when you're writing?




Insane. I’m a
binge writer. When I’m in the zone I’ll pound the keyboard for hours, never
coming up for air. Parts of WATERSPELL
were written while I lived in the tropics, in an open house on a high mountain lake.
I’d work late into the night, while all around me fell silent except for the
splash of the waves and the occasional hoot of an owl. In the garden were night-blooming
flowers, and their perfumes wafted in through the screen doors. An unearthly
experience. Magical!




When I’m not writing, I’m editing. As an editor,
I keep normal, boring hours: 9-to-5.




What would you say is your interesting writing quirk?




I’m told I
have Anglo-Saxon sensibilities. That is, I write in direct plain English. I
favor those punchy one-syllable words that derive from Old English, like gut, grip,
lock. A writer friend who’s far more
linguistically knowledgeable than I am told me my words tend to end with hard
consonant sounds: gut, grip, lock. Whereas her writing favors the softer end-sounds of languages
developed from Latin: balance, circumstance, mercy. I’d never analyzed my word choices from that angle, but I do
consciously rely on those short, punchy words to power my writing. If that’s a
quirk, it’s mine. :-)




Do you have anything specific that you want
to say to your readers?




I love this
quote: “The soul that has no fixed goal loses itself; for as they say, to be
everywhere is to be nowhere.” —Michel de Montaigne, a French essayist of the
1500s




I advise
everyone to have a fixed goal in life. It does wonders for organizing your time.
You will be too busy getting “somewhere” to ever end up languishing “nowhere.”




Thank you for
reading this far!








Author Bio




Castles in the cornfield provided the setting
for Deborah J. Lightfoot’s earliest flights of fancy. On her father’s farm in
West Texas, she grew up reading extraordinary tales of adventure and reenacting
them behind tall ramparts of sun-drenched corn. She left the farm to earn a
bachelor of science degree in journalism and write award-winning books of
history and biography, including The LH7 Ranch (University
of North Texas Press) and Trail
Fever (William Morrow, New York).
High on her Bucket List was the desire to try her hand at the genre she most
admired. The result is WATERSPELL, a complex, intricately detailed fantasy that
begins with Book 1: The Warlock and Book 2: The Wysard, and
concludes (for the present) with Book 3: The Wisewoman. But a legal pad
filled with notes and tucked away in a desk drawer suggests a possible Book 4
before the saga may fairly be said to be finished.




Deborah is a professional member of The
Authors Guild. She and her husband live in the country south of Fort Worth,
Texas. Find her online at www.waterspell.net.




WEBSITE

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LINKS
TO BUY

Amazon

Barnes and Noble








Drawn
into the schemes of an angry wizard, Carin glimpses the place she once called
home. It lies upon a shore that seems unreachable. To learn where she belongs
and how to get there, the teenage traveler must decipher the words of an alien
book, follow the clues in a bewitched poem, conjure a dragon from a pool of
magic -- and tread carefully around a seductive but volatile, emotionally
scarred sorcerer who can't seem to decide whether to love her or kill
her. 



Excerpt from

WATERSPELL Book 1: The Warlock




by Deborah J. Lightfoot







From

Chapter 1.
The Swordsman







It happened too fast to hurt at first. But, oh! the
blood—lots of it, streaming from a gouge that crosscut her knee.




She hunched over the wound, her masses of unkempt hair
tumbling around her face, strands of it trailing in the gore. Blindly Carin
fumbled in her belt-pouch for something to stanch the bleeding. Her fingers met
only flint and steel for fire-making, pebbles for arming her sling, and a length
of twine that was useful for everything from tying back her shaggy auburn mane
to rigging a brush shelter.




Abruptly a hand grasped the shank of her leg, and another
shoved at her shoulder. “Straighten up,” her captor snarled.




Carin threw back her head and flung the hair out of her
eyes. “You!” she gasped. “But—” She hadn’t heard the swordsman’s approaching footsteps—a
seeming impossibility through the crunchy carpet of autumn leaves. Yet here the
man was, crouched beside her and brandishing a dagger. Carin’s hand flew to
shield her throat, but it was her knee he put the blade to.




Stay away from me!
she wanted to shout at him. She couldn’t get the words out—not in a way that
made sense. As sometimes happened when she came unglued, Carin lapsed into a
language of her own. The sounds that passed her lips weren’t gibberish, but no
one ever understood a word she said when she got like this. Carin yelled at the
man, in her own private language, and tried to wrench free of his grasp.




“Stop your noise,” he barked. He held her leg tighter and
waved his dagger in her face. “If you can’t be quiet, I’ll cut out your
tongue.”




Copyright © 2011–2012 by Deborah J.
Lightfoot. All Rights Reserved.




Sample Chapter 1 in full at www.amazon.com/dp/B00686UIFW






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Contest Post

Sharon Bayliss has a book coming out (with a beautiful cover) and is hosting a
query/first 500 bloghop with opportunity to win a critique from her
editor. And there's still time to enter if you have a finished YA or NA (New Adult)



Query:


God answers nearly all of
fifteen-year-old Crystal's prayers. At least that's the way it seems since time
slows down so she doesn't miss the bus and speeds up so she doesn't have to
answer questions in class.



When she discovers her mother sought the help of witches to conceive her, Crystal’s faith becomes
one giant question mark. She tracks down the witches and demands answers. They tell
her she's the incarnation of magic--the only person whose magical potential is
limitless. Basically, Crystal's
been answering her own prayers.



Skeptical yet curious, Crystal
attempts to master her power, but flying and playing with fireballs attract dangerous
attention. A witch hunter captures her boyfriend, and shamans snatch her aunt.
For someone with limitless magic, Crystal
should easily be able to rescue them but every time her emotions run amuck, her
magic goes haywire. If she can't learn to control herself, she'll never be able
to save them.
CRYSTAL'S MAGIC is a 80,000-word YA paranormal novel with
series potential.



First 500 words:




“Crystal? Are you dressed yet?”

Crystal Miller
groaned and rolled over. Covering her head with her pillow, she peeked with one
eye at her alarm clock. If she didn’t leave the house immediately, she’d miss
the bus.

She scrambled
around the room, hopping into jeans, trying to throw on a shirt and brush her
hair at the same time. Somehow she wrestled her way into some clothes (whether
or not they looked good together she hadn’t the time to worry about) and ran
downstairs. Her kiss missed her mom’s cheek. “Bye, Mom!”

“Wait, Crystal, you forgot your
school bag.” Her mom held it out for her.

Crystal grabbed it and groaned again when she
spied the kitchen clock. There was no way she’d make the bus. It probably drove
past her house five minutes ago.

Still, she had to
try. She’d been oversleeping a lot lately, and her mom couldn’t drive her in
anymore.

Crystal threw her bag over her shoulder and
hurried out the door. She raced toward the bus stop.

Please, dear Lord, let the bus be there.
Please let the bus be there.

She ran with her
eyes closed. She never prayed with her eyes open.

When she reached
the end of the stone driveway, she opened her eyes.

The bus was just
pulling to a stop.

Crystal grinned. Thank you, Lord.

She climbed up the
steps and slid into her customary seat beside Kelly Mae.

Kelly Mae took one
look at her and raised a perfectly arched eyebrow until it disappeared behind
her blond sideswept bangs. “Again, Crystal?”

Crystal shrugged. “I must’ve slept through
the alarm. Why… is it that obvious?” She glanced down at her clothes. Dark blue
jeans, a black T-shirt, and a navy vest. Definitely not the most stylish of
choices.

Kelly Mae reached
over and tugged something out of Crystal’s
hair. Her hairbrush.

Crystal just stared at it and laughed.

***

Crystal's mind wandered during geometry
class. It’s not that she didn’t want to learn, it’s just that she always felt
as if she was wasting her time, as if she was meant for something more than
learning the area of a rhombus. I mean,
seriously, a rhombus? Who came up with that word?

"Crystal, care to join
us?"

She snapped her
head up and looked at the stern face of Mrs. Gingrinch. "Sorry," she
mumbled.

"Pay
attention." Mrs. Gingrinch turned to face the chalkboard and continued
writing.

Crystal hung her head. What’s wrong with me lately? She had a hard time falling asleep but
when she did, she was out. And she was always daydreaming—

"Crystal! Come up here and
solve this problem."

Crystal gulped. She stood and walked to the
chalkboard. Mrs. Gingrinch held out the chalk, and Crystal hated the smug look on her teacher's
face.

Shouldn't teachers want their students to
succeed?

She took the chalk
and inhaled deeply. She could do this.

Until she looked
at the math problem and realized she had no idea what to do or how to figure
out the answer.

How I wrote an action/thriller through editing - Matt Chatelain Guest Blog

I had no idea
my story 'The Caves of Etretat, would end up a rollercoaster action/thriller
when I started writing it, five years ago. It wasn't supposed to be a four-book
series.  I didn't know about pace or
characters. I was just writing my first book. There wasn't much introspection
about it at all.

It was
editing's fault, not mine. I barely had anything to do with it.

It started
simply enough, with a rejection. I'd sent a query to a specific agent, my first
attempt. I was refused but the refusal came accompanied by a few suggestions,
indicating my story couldn't sell as a first work because it was too long.  It needed to lose thirty thousand words. I
sent a reply email saying I could reduce it to one hundred and twenty thousand
words in two weeks.

I'd never
reduced a novel before but it seemed a simple enough task. My only concern was
that the story not be weakened. I preferred removing extraneous details and
small scenes not integral to the plot. It took me three weeks. The agent agreed
to look at the first fifteen thousand words. She rejected it again, saying
there was no pace.

There was an
intrinsic weakness to 'The Caves of Etretat'. It didn't have an antagonist. I
had a bunch of guys going around, discovering stuff. Big deal. Where was the
excitement in that? I'd created a couple of fake antagonists who ended up being
friends later. I needed something stronger.

Other things
were happening. I was doing research to provide more accuracy to the story. I
started with the Oak Island treasure, continuing with Etretat, the bizarre
tourist town in France, with its giant cliffs and their hidden tunnels. Maurice
Leblanc, who lived in Etretat and the author featured in my story, had written
books full of codes, hidden from the average reader. When deciphered, the codes
sent you investigating Rennes-le-Chateau and the priest Berenger Sauniere.

Rennes-le-Chateau
and Sauniere were at the center of the biggest controversy in our century,
epitomised by such books as 'The Holy Blood and the Holy Grail' and 'The Da
Vinci Code'. How had I ended up here? I'd wanted to write a story like Dan
Brown's but not the same story. Even more curiously, the research was pointing
me towards my earliest book, 'The Greyman', an attempt to express my views about
the illusory nature of reality in an action format.

More
connections evolved, linking to 'The Caves of Etretat'. An antagonist appeared
like no other I'd found before. Story elements drifted, linking in radical new
ways. I would need a bridging book… no… two bridging books. It could be done
but I'd have to re-write book one.

That was the second
of over ten eventual re-writes, while I wrote the rest of the series.

I added another
twenty thousand words to the story, placing antagonist-related sections between
the research sections with my guys. It gave readers (and my characters) a
pressure to go on. If my main character, Paul Sirenne, didn't find the answers,
the Shadow-Killer would attack and kill him. After all that writing, the story
was too long, so I shaved it back down to one hundred and fifteen thousand
words, still keeping the storyline intact.

This was my
first lesson about pace. The more details I took out, the faster the story
went. My story had a current, carrying the reader on, no matter where they
dropped into the story. Storyline became everything. Details became sparse.
Eventually, I compared my story to a bobsled run. When the bobsled hit the
side, that was a detail, just enough to get you back on track.

I'd taken two
and a half years to write book one. Book two took one year, book three, eight
months. I was getting better. I could assemble a novel's storyline more easily.
Characters were developing their own voices, instead of the ones I tried to
give them, prompting more re-writes of book one. Each book of the series was an
improvement on the previous, with leaner, tighter text and faster pace. The
scope expanded with each book, until they became distinct levels from each
other.

In 2011, I
submitted 'The Caves of Etretat' to the Amazon Breakthrough contest (it got to
quarter-finals). One week later, my brother read it for the first time. His
reaction was:

"It's terrible. No one can read that. It's not
the story, the story's good. It's your writing."

I'd just
finished writing book four, in six months, feeling fantastic. I put it away, depressed
for days. Of course, I couldn't give up. I got back to the computer desk and
started editing with a vengeance. I worked on it for eight months, reviewing book
one six times. The process revealed more about me than the book. I had filled
the book with hesitations and sentence crutches.  Useless sentence bits like 'I felt that I
could…' or 'It seemed that he was…' proliferated in the paragraphs.

Many sentences
intended to say something but the words weren't doing the job. I streamlined
every sentence with new-found skills. I learned to be brave, to let sentences
stand on their own, without crutch words. I found new ways to present action
sequences, improving the pacing. 'The Caves of Etretat' ended up at one hundred
and eight thousand words. I had removed over sixty-five thousand words.

 The task continued in book two. My brother was
editing my edits and returning it to me, a counterpoint to my efforts. One day,
I noticed he was finding one problem per page, while I was noticing several problems
per paragraph. I had improved again, forcing me to go back and do more edits on
what I had already done. I had discovered Quantum Editing, the process where the
act of changing the novel changes the editor, forcing more changes on the book,
forcing more changes on the editor… etc.

Finally it was finished,
if such a task ever finishes. 

It was all
there: the story, the pace, the scope, and, most of all, the answers to man's
most important question 'Why are we
here?', mixing religion with history, history with illusion, and illusion
with reality. Book one covers one hundred years and reads like an action/thriller,
focused on Etretat (think 'The Da Vinci Code' with an edge). Book two (The Four
Books of Etretat) takes off like a rabbit, covering thirty thousand years. It
involves the rest of the world in Sirenne's adventures, introducing immortality,
the worst serial killer you could imagine, and questions about the nature of
reality. Book three (The One Book of Etretat) covers sixty-five million years,
bringing quantum physics, religion, and all history, into the fold. Book four
(The Greyman) starts at the beginning of the universe and finishes at the
beginning of book one, explaining the reasons for everything, seen through the
eyes of an immortal Paul Sirenne.  Because of the circular nature of the series,
book one can be re-read following book four. It becomes book five, continuing
the story and revealing hidden layers.

The last six
years have been a non-stop learning experience. I was always working at the
edge of my abilities, never sure I would succeed. The series taught me much
more than how to write a thriller or how to edit. It taught me about life's deepest
questions, providing the answers I had sought for so long. Those answers can be
found buried in the series, a message of hope and inspiration.

If you are
interested in finding out more about the Sirenne Saga series, please check out
my website www.mattchatelain.com . Books one and two ('The Caves of Etretat'
and 'The Four Books of Etretat') are available at Kindle, as Ebook, or at
Amazon, as hardcopy. My website has audio excerpts, character/author
interviews, and much more. I also hold a free monthly draw for signed copies of
the published series. All it takes is a few minutes to register. Check my
website for dates and prizes.

All four books
will be released in 2012. I plan my next two books to be a further exploration
into the thriller/action genre, hoping to write an ultimate treatment to
surpass Matt Reilly's 'Ice Station'. In the subtext, the series will deal with
man's obsession with money, the problems it brings, and one potential solution.
I will deepen my exploration of characters, intent on honing my writing skills.

I may even edit
'The Caves of Etretat' again!







The Caves of Etretat

by Matt
Chatelain

~~~~~~~~~~~~~







BLURB:




In
2007, Canadian bookstore owner Paul Sirenne is suddenly thrust into a quest for
answers, when his parents are found brutally murdered, their bodies cut up and
shaped into the letters H.N. Finding a note inside his father's copy of 'The
Hollow Needle', by Maurice Leblanc, Sirenne is determined to uncover the roots
of his long-forgotten family secret.



He heads to the town of Etretat, France, on the trail of a hundred year old
mystery hidden in the pages of the 'Hollow Needle'. Falling in love with
Leblanc's great-granddaughter, he deals with puzzles, theories, codes and
historical mysteries, leading him to believe that Leblanc held a secret war
against Adolf Hitler, fighting for the control of an incredible complex of
caves hidden in Etretat's chalk cliffs.



'THE CAVES OF ETRETAT' is the first in a four-book epic adventure following
Paul Sirenne, an average man unknowingly manipulated into becoming the key in
the final phase of a complex conspiracy spanning millennia. Inextricably woven
into history, the series re-writes everything we know in a non-stop
rollercoaster of a ride where nothing is ever as it seems.




~~~~~~~~~~~~~




Excerpt




While I drove
toward my father's place, my rear view mirror allowed me the occasional glimpse
of a familiar vehicle and its driver, Norton. His companions were nowhere to be
seen. Perhaps he was intent on protecting me but I doubted it. His comments had seemed disjointed to me, despite the
circumstances. Everything he said had come across insincere, as if he were
following another agenda. I resolved to ignore
him for the time being. Let him do his watching.




To some,
police protection might seem comforting. To me, it felt like an irritant. I
preferred to mind my own business and for others to do the same, even in dire
circumstances. That way I hurt no one and no one got hurt. I almost changed my
opinion when I arrived at my father’s house. Even Norton's company would have
been preferable to that of my own thoughts. I hurried up the entrance staircase
and stopped in front of the door, taking a deep breath. I felt frozen in place,
unable to open it.




Breaking the
spell and forcing myself to move, I removed the police tape with a trembling hand and entered, closing the door behind me. I
looked around the entrance hallway. Everything looked normal but it felt wrong,
empty, too quiet. I walked into the living room and there it was: the bloody
outline of the H and the N. I was horrified by the bloodstained dots after each
gruesome letter, knowing what had left those imprints.




Seized by a
sudden, irresistible impulse, I ran to the kitchen, filled a large bucket with
hot water and picked up a heavy bristle brush.




Those stains
had to go!




I returned to
the living room, trying to stay calm, to think nothing about what the stains represented. I knelt down, splashed some
water on the floor, and began scrubbing the dark
stains. I didn’t care if I scratched the wood.
At some point, I started crying in great, wracking sobs, the tears streaming
down my cheeks, dripping onto the bloodstains on the floor.




By the time I
was done, my tears had dried, evaporated by a burning resolve unlike any I had
before. I did not know how, I did not know when, but I would catch that
monstrous killer. He would pay for what he had done.






~~~~~~~~~~~~~






AUTHOR Bio and Links:




Born in Ottawa, fifty-two years ago, I have been the owner of a used
bookstore I opened in Ontario, since 1990. I have been writing since I was ten.
Beginning with poetry, I quickly moved on to short stories and non-fiction
pieces. I stayed in that format for many years, eventually self-publishing a
franchise manual (How to Open Your Own Used Bookstore), as well as a variety of
booklets, such as 'How to Save Money at Home', 'Build a Greenhouse with Style'
and the ten booklet series of Eddy Brock, Brockville Detective.




Having semi-retired from the bookstore, I embarked on the project of
writing my first serious novel, which I expanded to a four book series after
discovering an incredible mystery hidden within Maurice Leblanc's books.




My interests are eclectic. I like Quantum Physics, Cosmology, history,
archaeology, science in general, mechanics, free power, recycling and re-use.
I'm a good handyman and can usually fix just about anything. I'm good with
computers. I love movies, both good and bad, preferring action and war movies.
I can draw and paint fairly well but am so obsessed with perspective and light
that I cannot think of much else. I am too detail oriented. Takes too long to
finish anything.




Website

Facebook page




~~~~~~~~~~~~~




PRIZE INFORMATION




Matt
will be awarding a $20 Amazon GC to one randomly drawn commenter during the
tour. To increase your chances of winning, visit here to see the list of tour dates.

Question of the Week - Would you rather...

Credit for picture

Would you rather be healthy and poor or sick and rich?

Good looking and poor or unattractive and rich?

Healthy and unattractive or sick and good looking?

 

For me: healthy and poor; good looking and poor; and healthy and unattractive.

Query Roundtable - Crystal's Magic

Rachel at You Are What You Write is having a Query Roundtable. Basically, we post our queries and visit everyone to give them helpful comments and feedback so our queries shine. Want to join in? The details are here.



Here's the pitch portion of Crystal's Magic, a paranormal YA novel, now revised based on comments:






God answers nearly all of fifteen-year-old Crystal's
prayers. At least that's the way it seems since time slows down so she doesn't
miss the bus and speeds up so she doesn't have to answer questions in class.



But after she discovers a hidden note detailing how her mother sought the help
of witches to conceive her, Crystal’s
faith becomes one giant question mark. She tracks down the witches and demands
answers. The witches tell her she's been answering her own prayers because she
is the human incarnation of magic—the only person whose magical potential is
limitless.



Although she's skeptic about being the incarnation of magic, Crystal's curious and struggles to learn to
fly and play with magical fire. But it's not all fun and games when a witch
hunter captures her boyfriend, and several shamans snatch her aunt. For someone
with limitless magic, Crystal
should be easily able to rescue them but every time her emotions run amuck, her
magic goes haywire.  If she can't learn to control herself, she'll never
be able to save them.




Instead, Crystal
just might start the Apocalypse and doom the entire world.


Any and all comments / feedback / suggestions welcome! Thanks!

Colors Like Memories by Meradeth Houston

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Colors Like Memories by Meradeth Houston

Julia has a secret: she killed the guy she loved. It was an accident—sort of.

Julia is a Sary, the soul of a child who died before taking her first breath. Without this 'breath of life' she and others like her must help those on the verge of suicide. It's a job Julia enjoyed, until the accident that claimed her boyfriend’s life—an accident she knows was her fault. If living with the guilt weren't enough, she's now assigned to help a girl dealing with the loss of her mother, something Julia is not exactly the best role model for. If she can't figure out a way to help her, Julia will lose her position in the Sary, something she swore to her boyfriend would never happen.

From now until May 23rd Colors Like Memories is just $1.99.



Links:



Website: http://www.meradethhouston.com/

Twitter: https://twitter.com/#!/MeradethHouston


Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/ColorsLikeMemories


Pinterest: http://pinterest.com/merbear95695/


Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/13030422-colors-like-memories


Meradeth on Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5321667.Meradeth_Houston

Blog: http://meradethhouston.blogspot.com/





Author Meradeth Houston



I've never been a big fan of talking about myself, but if you really want to know, here are some random tidbits about me:





I'm a California girl. This generally means I talk too fast and use "like" a lot.
I have my doctorate in molecular anthropology. Translation: I sequence dead people's DNA and spend a whole lot of time in a lab, which I love.
I've been writing since I was 11 years old. It's my hobby, my passion, and I'm so happy to get to share my work!
My other passion is teaching. There's nothing more fun than getting a classroom of college kids fired up about anthropology!
If I could have a super-power, it would totally be flying. Which is a little strange, because I'm terrified of heights.



Giveaway Details: 

$50 Amazon.com Gift Code

Last day to enter is May 29th



Open to anyone who can legally enter and can receive and use an Amazon.com Gift Code. Winning Entry will be verified prior to prize being awarded. No purchase necessary. You must be 18 or older to enter or have your parent's permission. The winner will be chosen by rafflecopter and announced here as well as emailed and will have 48 hours to respond or a new winner will be chosen. This giveaway is in no way associated with Facebook, Twitter, Rafflecopter or any other entity unless otherwise specified. The number of eligible entries received determines the odds of winning. VOID WHERE PROHIBITED BY LAW.


a Rafflecopter giveaway

2nd Annual Flash Fiction Blogfest - The Storm

Cherie Reich is hosting a flash fiction blogfest!





Here are the rules:


1. Entries must begin with the two words: Lightning flashed.


2. Entries must be 300 words or less and be in prose. I'm not versed enough in poetry verse to judge it properly.


3. Entries must be posted on your blog between May 21 - 23.


4. You must sign up in the linky below to have your entry be counted.





On May 25, I will announce the six finalists and open voting through May 28th.





On
May 29th, my third year blogversary, I will announce the 1st, 2nd, and
3rd place winners as well as a random winner selected from the
participants list. All ties will be broken by Random.org.





Now what are the prizes?


First place - $25 gift card from Amazon


Second place - $20 gift card from Amazon


Third place - $15 gift card from Amazon


Random prize - $10 gift card from Amazon





If the winner prefers an alternate gift of equal value, I'm good with that. Contest in open internationally.




Here's my entry called THE STORM:




Lightning flashed.




Violet smiled. She loved storms, especially the rain. As a
small child, she used to spread her arms wide, her face lifted to the clouds,
as the rain kissed her.




Thunder boomed. Loud and powerful.




Another flash of lightning.




Violet stepped off her front porch.




Another rumble. This one even louder. The storm was getting
closer.




Violet’s short hair matted to her forehead. Her dress clung
to her legs, making it hard to walk.




She could feel the crackle of electricity, so close was the
next strike.




Most people would not be out in this storm.




But Violet wasn’t like most people.




Her world was crumbling apart. Her fiancé had cheated on
her, she had been fired from her job, she was behind on all of her bills, she
hadn’t spoken to her father in years…




Yet, somehow, someway, in this moment, she was happy.




She raised her arms toward the heavens.




The thunder screamed and burst her eardrums.




Lightning coursed through her veins.




Violet dropped into a puddle, the murky, muddy water
staining pink.




Dead.




Another bolt of lightning jolted her body, and Violet lifted
her head.




Alive again.




But no longer human.




She had been wronged so many times in life. Now she had the
chance to right those wrongs.




Starting with her no-good fiancé.




Violet was now a monster.




Her body transformed into water, and she slipped down a
manhole into the sewers. Revenge would be hers.




And still the storm raged on.

Like Clockwork by Elle Strauss

Like Clockwork, a companion novel to the Clockwise series, is here!!










Adeline doesn't feel she belongs in her own time, but can bad boys from the past be trusted?





 Adeline
Savoy had hoped that the move west from Cambridge to Hollywood with her
single dad would mean they’d finally bond like a real family, but all
she got was a father too busy with his new female friends and his
passion for acting to really see her.





 Instead she
finds herself getting attached to Faye, the divorcee hair dresser she
befriends when she travels back in time to 1955. Plus Faye has a hottie,
James Dean-esque, bad-boy brother who has Adeline’s heart all aflutter.
But bad boys from the past can be dangerous.
Is it possible that Adeline really does belong in her own time and that
maybe the right boy lives as close as next door?





LIKE CLOCKWORK is available now at Amazon and Smashwords and soon for B&N, ibooks and other e-book retailers.







 Read on to sample the first chapter:












Chapter One

Adeline Savoy







My dad still thought I was ten. That was how old I was when my
mother died, and how old I was when my father crawled into his “cave,” also
known as his office on the 26th floor of the John Hancock tower. Six years
later, like a bear coming out of hibernation, Dad decided his days of hiding
behind a desk were over. I thought he was going through a mid-life crisis,
which was why we now lived in Hollywood instead of Cambridge. And why when I
spotted his reflection in a mirror at the cosmetic counter in the Shop &
Save store, I almost dropped the Scarlet
Passion lipstick tester I'd just smeared on my lips.




Even though I was sixteen, I wasn't allowed to wear make-up.
True. With my left hand I used a tissue to wipe the evidence off my mouth, all
the while watching my dad’s familiar profile move in and out of range in the
mirror.




He was laughing. I crouched down and turned, my vision just
missing the counter top, and watched. His hair had grown out since the
“decision.” He used to always keep it so short, that I didn’t even know it was
wavy before, and the lines on his face never used to turn upward in a smile.

I had to see who was causing this cosmic reaction in my father.
The clerk who sold cheap jewelry, a pretty-in-a-fake way brunette, tilted her
head and giggled back.




My jaw dropped and something really strange started happening
in my stomach. I felt a little sick because I couldn’t believe what I was
witnessing. My dad was flirting!




Who was this man dressed in khakis, flip-flops and an un-tucked
pseudo Hawaiian shirt? My real dad only wore pinstriped suits with starchy
white shirts and a blue tie. Always. Even to bed, I was certain.




“Miss? Are you all right?” The cosmetic clerk was armed with a
spray nozzle cleaner in one hand and a paper towel in the other.




I mimed as best I could, “ssh”, but apparently dad was the only
one with acting skills in my family, since she wouldn’t leave me alone.




“Miss? You don’t look too good. Should I call for medical?”




The fake pretty lady stopped chatting when she heard her
colleague talking so loudly. Obviously, that meant my dad’s little flirtation
episode was over. And of course, my blonde ponytail was a giveaway. 




“Adeline?”
he said.




“Dad!” I jumped up, feigning surprise.




“What are you doing here?” he asked.




What are you doing here?
I thought. “Um nothing, just looking. Thought I might buy some gum.”




Dad glanced back at the fake and I did a quick switcheroo,
replacing the tester and grabbing a sealed golden tube. It tucked nicely in my
fist as I crossed my arms over my chest.




“Adeline, come here,” Dad said. “I want you to meet someone.”




My legs moved toward dad and the fake without my permission.




“Adeline, this is my friend from acting class, Spring. Spring,
this is my daughter, Adeline.”




Spring extended her hand. Unfortunately, the contraband
lipstick was in my right hand. I wasn’t a magician. Dad would notice if I tried
to switch. I opted for the awkward offering of my left hand.




“It’s so nice to meet you,” Spring gushed.




“Same,” I said, not meaning it at all. “Not that I don’t want
to stay and chat,” I added quickly, before Dad could draw us into more forced
intimacies, “but I’ve got to go.”




“I’ll walk with you,” Dad said. But he wasn’t looking at me; he
was smiling at the fake.




“It’s okay, Dad. I’ll meet you at home.” I strutted across the
floor to the cashier. He glanced back at me as I stood in line at the register.
I waved the pack of gum in the air. I paid for it and the lipstick while Dad
and the fake went back to making googly eyes.




I snapped the gum in my mouth while caressing the lipstick tube
in my hand. It was encased in a plastic protective seal, a perforated strip
running the length of it like a zipper. My thumb picked at the rim. All I had
to do was rip it open and it would no longer be returnable.




But I really should return it. I’d promised myself I’d give up
the greasy lip habit when we moved. It was a chance to start over, do
everything new, and be a proper daughter with a proper father.




Hrumph. Like that was
turning out. Dad wasn't exactly holding up his end of the bargain.




My breaths came out short and rapid, like a panting dog. I
didn’t realize how fast I’d been walking. I’d hardly taken in the tall palm
trees that lined the road or the sweet smell of tropical flowers I didn’t know
the names of.




No signs of autumn in sight. In Cambridge the leaves would be
showing signs of turning color, bright reds and yellows. A little twist in my
stomach. I was homesick.




And angry.




He was supposed to change, but not like that. He was supposed
to notice me, spend time with me, not some flake called Spring. What kind of
name was that anyway? It sounded like a made up actress name. Her last name was
probably Storm or Wind. My thumb picked the plastic a bit more.




“Hi, there.”




I turned my head. Some guy riding a pink bike with a sparkly
white banana seat and matching tassels that hung off tall, wide handle bars
slowed down to keep pace with me.




“Hi,” he said again. This time there was no mistaking he was
talking to me.




“Hi?” I said, not slowing down at all to do so. I may be
entering my junior year, but I still didn’t talk to strangers. Janice, my
babysitter/pseudo mom in Cambridge, had drilled that lesson into me good.




“My name's Marco. I live next door to you.”




Okay. I slowed a little. “Why are you riding a girl’s bike?”
Did he steal it? Why didn’t he care about how stupid it made him look?




“It’s my sister’s. I sold mine to buy something else, but
riding this is better than walking.”




“I’m walking and you’re not making any better time than me.” I
was annoyed. Why didn’t he just keep going? I preferred to sulk alone.




“You’re new, so I thought with school starting tomorrow, you’d
like someone to ride the bus with.”




Good point. Who knew what kinds of Hollywood weirdos would be
on the bus? I looked Marco up and down. He was average height, shaggy hair, and
wore a graphic t-shirt and surfer shorts with fat, loosely tied skate shoes on
his feet. No socks. He had nice, tanned skin and warm brown eyes that squinted
to almost close when he smiled. He wasn’t hard to look at.




And he looked trustworthy enough, I guessed. Plus, he was right.
I didn’t really want to go to Hollywood High alone.




I stopped and turned to him. “I’m Adeline Savoy.” I wiped the
sweat on my right hand off on my skirt—sky blue, slightly flared and to my
knees—and offered it wanting to start my new friendship off on the right foot.




“Cool,” Marco said as we shook. “You like to make things
official. I like that.”




The sun must’ve glinted off the gold tube in my other hand
because Marco nodded toward it. “What’ya got there?”




“Oh, it’s just lipstick. I bought it, but now I’m not sure. I
might take it back.”




“I don’t know why girls wear that vile stuff,” he said. I was
surprised by the strength of his statement.




“It makes us feel good. Pretty. What’s wrong with that?”




“For one thing, you’re already pretty without it.”




He thought I was pretty?




“Besides,” he continued, “it’s made out of horse urine.”




“It is not! That’s so gross.”




“It is. That’s why it has that sticky consistency. Have you
ever seen dried urine around a toilet?”




“You’re disgusting! How would you know about lipstick, anyway?”




“I have three sisters, though one is only six years old and
hasn’t discovered the evils of make-up and this culture’s drive to sexualize
young girls. It’s too late for my older sisters, but you can still be saved.”




Who was this guy? And how did he get off talking to me like
that? He didn’t even know me. I felt my lips settle into a tight line and my pace picked up.




“Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.”




How long was he going to walk with me? “Where did you say you
lived?”




“Right next door to you.”




“Right next door?” This annoying person, who happened to be my
only friend, lived right next door?




“Yeah, the two storey. My bedroom window faces yours.”




“You see in my window!”




“No. I don’t…” His face flushed red.




“You do, you do look
in. You peeping Tom!”




“Adeline, I didn’t see anything. I just heard your music.”




“Huh?” I stopped and spun to face him.




A grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. “And your singing.”




“What?” I was mortified. He probably heard me singing along to  Feist, or even worse, he saw me doing my
Michael Jackson impersonation. I bet he saw me doing the Thriller dance the other night. Ugh!




“Everyone can hear you. You have your window open.”




“You know what? Don’t talk to me.”




Marco seemed truly taken aback, and yet he didn’t get the hint.
Not even one as direct as that. He was not only a peeper, but he was dense,
too.




“I live in a house full of women. Three sisters and a mother. I
get what’s going on here. It’s PMS, isn’t it?”




Was he kidding me? As
if I would talk about something like that with him! I stopped and stared hard
into his eyes. I produced my new tube of lipstick and slowly peeled the
perforated strip, letting the plastic wrapper drop to the ground. I
dramatically popped off the lid and twisted the base until the bright red dried
horse urine was in full view.




Then I put it on my lips, slowly, purposefully, first the top
and then the bottom, smacking them in Marco’s direction when I was done.




Take that, Mr. I Know Women.




Marco bent down, picked up the plastic wrapper and pushed it in
his pocket. He straddled the bike and pushed off, turning back long enough to
say, “I’ll pick you up at 8:10 tomorrow morning for school.”




Argh.