Marian Allen's Blog, page 402

Monstrously Good Book

This is probably my favorite book cover for any book ever! I bought this as an eBook and loved the cover so much I had to buy it in paper, partly because I always want “keepers” in paper but mostly for the cover:

Red, tell the people what the book is about — as if the cover weren’t enough.

~ * ~

Debra Wheeler seems like any other high school reject: at fifteen, she’s more into roller skating than boys, and Mom plays favorites with big sister Gennifer, the homecoming princess. With little to love in ultra-rural Bedrock, Indiana, Deb’s counting down the days until she can skate away to join the roller derby.

When Gennifer is kidnapped, Mom’s breakdown forces Deb to take charge. With no clue where to start and thugs on her tail, she turns to the only adult who has ever helped her out in a jam: Coach, the owner of the skating rink. So what if he has tusks and might be a troll? Coach gives her a pair of magical skates and sends her off into a world that reveals a magical, if somewhat sinister, nature. Deb soon discovers that beneath the “glamours” of everyday life flit a million fantastical stories–and her own might be the juiciest gossip in town.

The Midwestern lifestyle every teenager loves to hate is turned inside out as Deb careens through Rumspringa, biker gangs, flea markets and tractor pulls–all teeming with fae. The valiant troll Harlow tries to intervene before Deb strays from her mission into romance and roller derby, but will they join forces to save Gennifer, or be lost to this strange new realm, forever?

Readers will find Deb a smart and witty narrator who–like them–says the wrong thing, wishes she could be someone else, and falls for the wrong person. They’ll be drawn in by a girl who is independent and street smart, and they’ll fall for her destined BFF, the whimsical troll loner who guides them through this quirky dark fantasy romp.

~ * ~

About the Author

Red Tash is a journalist-turned-novelist of dark fantasy for readers of all ages. Monsters, SciFi, wizards, trolls, fairies, and roller derby lightly sautéed in a Southern/Midwestern sauce await you in her pantry of readerly delights. Y’all come, anytime.

AND IT’S ON SALE! Today is the last day, so hop over and grab you a copy. You’ll be SO glad you did! If you miss the sale, I promise you it’s worth every penny of the full price.

Amazon Kindle

Barnes & Noble Nook

Apple iTunes

Kobo

Smashwords

A WRITING PROMPT FOR YOU: A teenager is doing something typically teenagery when something magical happens.

MA

#SampleSunday – On the Run

Here’s another sample from The Fall of Onagros, Book 1 of Sage. Books 2 and 3 are inching ever closer to the end of the pipeline. Meanwhile, Book 1 is out in print and various electronic versions (see sidebar for links).

The Fall of Onagros, Book 1 of Sage – excerpt

On the Run

by Marian Allen

After another moment’s consideration, Brady and Elsie threaded through a crowd watching a puppet show, off the road, and around a grassy rise. He saw the tops of some trees a little farther on and led the way to them. He and Elsie stepped into the hanging shelter of a willow. Somewhere nearer to the river, a hen crooned a soft monologue. The air was still, and rich with the smell of living wood. Bees hummed around their dappled sanctuary, reminding Brady of the skeps at the back of Devona’s manor, of the beeswax candles in the scrivenry and their smell of caramelized honey as they burned.

“I’m hungry,” said Elsie.

“I could eat a little something.”

Elsie unpacked bread, cheese, and water, took some, and left Brady to help himself.

“Oh, very nice, girl,” Brady sneered, enjoying the luxury of speaking out instead of biting back his words. “‘Risk your life for me. Don’t expect me to thank you, of course – ‘”

Elsie snapped, “Don’t call me ‘girl!’”

“Well, I won’t call you ‘Mistress Elsie’ anymore. And I won’t call your father ‘Master’ – until I see him again.” Brady poked at his anger, trying to make it blaze. He was disappointed to find that, once unbanked, it was no more than irritation. “Your mother is my Mistress. You other two are only nuisances –”

“And you’re a work-for-hire man!”

“With your life in my hands.”

Elsie’s face drained of color. To Brady’s shock, she began to cry: not a poor-me snivel or a give-me-my-way wail or a lovely-when-I-weep single teardrop, but ugly, wracking sobs.

At a loss, he watched until she pressed her hands to her temples, took a series of shuddering breaths, and grew quiet.

She kept her head lowered as she said, “I didn’t mean to cry. I don’t want your pity. You can’t know – The kind of life you’ve lived – I think you like what’s happened. You like running away with danger at our heels.”

Brady had to admit, provided the danger was unlikely to catch him, he enjoyed the chase.

As if she read his thoughts, Elsie said, “I don’t. A month ago, I was happy. My life was secure. I knew who I was, and I could be fairly certain of who I would become. Now….” She took a quick, deep breath. “I’m terrified. But I’m so tired. I can’t bear to stop but I couldn’t go on. Every second, I think I’ll hear Landry’s men, but I couldn’t…. And now you threaten me –”

Brady forgot that Elsie was a woman’s age, and only remembered that she was six years younger than he – a baby. He scolded her as an older brother would have: “Oh, don’t! Why would I help you escape if I didn’t intend to finish the job?”

“Finish?”

“Take you to Kozabir. Get you settled there. Safe. I promised your mother, didn’t I? Just watch how you talk to me, that’s all I’m saying. You owe me some courtesy.”

“I suppose I do.” Elsie wiped her face on the sleeves of her shirt. Brady nearly smiled, seeing the fastidious Mistress Elsie with her face smeared and blotchy. It added to her disguise; she looked even less like the Kinninger’s runaway bride and more like a grubby schoolboy.

~*~

You want to buy that book and read it and review it, don’t you? As the little brother of a friend of #4 Daughter used to say when he was trying to persuade one to bend to his will, “You WANT to!”

I’m posting today at The Write Type about how I’m preparing for Story A Day in May.

A WRITING PROMPT FOR YOU: A character misunderstands the motivation behind another character’s statement.

MA

#Caturday Resentment of Cats in My Youth

It’s no wonder it took me so long to warm up to cats. When I was young, cats were the source of a great deal of the sarcasm that came my way.

“Cats are like that,” I hear you say. But it isn’t cats who were sarcastic with me; it was adults, using cats as their vehicles.

If I was told, “Children should be seen and not heard,” so often that I fell silent, some adult was sure to say, “What’s wrong with you? Cat got your tongue?” Now, having browsed the internet, you may imagine the grim and ghastly explanations for the origin of this phrase I’ve come across, but I prefer the one on The Phrase Finder: Nobody knows. It has the dual qualities of being intriguing and irritating, like Louie Louie but shorter.

If I was instructed to do something and I had the audacity to ask, “What for?” (Being a child of the Midwest, I naturally pronounced it, “Whut fur?”), I was told, “Cat fur, to make a pair of kitten britches. Want a pair?” The Maven’s Word of the Day says that the phrase dates back to the 19th Century. It is probably why so many people in the 1800s ran off and became pirates.

Look, people. THESE are kitten britches:

Are we clear?

What were some stock phrases used to you when you were a child? “For God’s sake, stop it!” doesn’t count.

A WRITING PROMPT FOR YOU: Think of a phrase used to children and have it irritate your main character as a child.

MA

Mansfield, I Never Get Your Depth

I love Mansfield, Ohio. No, I love, love, LOVE Mansfield, Ohio. To those who have heard the Bubba and Bo Incident, it will come as a surprise that I go willingly into Ohio, but I do it for sf conventions, and I do it for Mansfield.

We stopped there at random once, on our way to somewhere else, and we’ve kept finding cool things about it.

Kingwood Center Gardens

First, we discovered the Kingwood Center. It takes at least a day to really explore the gardens, and then there’s the house.

But there’s not just A garden, there are many, many gardens. I’d like to take a week sometime, and just spend every day wandering around those gardens. Maybe I’ll sneak a camouflage bag in there and just camp out year ’round. ~ha ha ha ha ha ho ho ho ho~ Wait a minute, while I get up off the floor and wipe the tears of laughter out of my eyes. Yeah, me camping out. ~snort snort snort~

Anyway, it’s beautiful!

Then we discovered Malabar Farm, the home of author and conservationist Louis Bromfield. Malabar Farm is now a State Park and a historic landmark, but it was once a house and farm. You could spend another week or do just doing stuff there. If you don’t know who Louis Bromfield was, he hung out in Paris with Hemingway and Stein and all that crew. Here’s a Wikipedia article about Louis Bromfield. Oh, yeah, and Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall were married at Malabar Farm.

Another time, we went to the Carousel Works, where they carve and paint carousel figures. There’s also a HUGE carousel in downtown Mansfield, in a structure that can be enclosed in bad weather and open in good weather. Oh. Em. Gee.

Today, I met a young lady who comes from Mansfield, and she told me about a place I didn’t know about: The Ohio State Reformatory. No longer a reformatory, it’s now an event venue, a museum, a ghosty place, AND THE SET OF THE SHAWSHANK REDEMPTION!

So, if you’re wondering where to go this summer, guess where I recommend?

A WRITING PROMPT FOR YOU: Look up a city at random and see what cool stuff is there for a character to do.

MA

What Have I Done?? Pledged Myself To @StoryADayMay

I didn’t have enough to do, ha ha.

NaNoWriMo wasn’t challenging enough. ←bald-faced lie

So I’ve decided to sign up for Story A Day’s May challenge. Yes, I will write — or, at least, rough out — a story every day in May. They won’t be wonderful, like the ones Damyanti wrote for the A to Z April challenge that resulted in her A to Z Stories of Life and Death book (only 99 cents and WAY cheap at the price!).

People sometimes ask where writers get their ideas. Listen: Getting the ideas is the easy part. Ideas fall like the gentle rain from heav’n upon the place beneath. It’s hooking an idea up with plot, theme, characters, setting, dialog, point of view, language, length, tone, and all the other things that turn an idea into a story that writing is all about.

So I have a big fat folder filled with false starts, snippets remembered from dreams, overheard conversations, random thoughts, and all sorts of “bits”. I plan to reach into that folder and grab a handful of “seeds” and make stories out of them.

Wish me luck! Or, as they say in the movies, “Cover me–I’m goin’ in.”

A WRITING PROMPT FOR YOU: A character takes on a challenge that may be too much for them. ←(Reflecting my new use of “singular they”.)

MA

Mustard Chops Without The Chops

A friend of my mother’s made this for us many years ago, and I love it SO HARD! When we went practically vegetarian, this dish was one of the hardest for me to give up, so I made a vegetarian version. Is it the same? Well, no. Is it better or worse? Well, if meat makes you queasy, it’s better; if not, not.

Mustard Chops (original)

pork chops
prepared mustard
flour
Jane’s Krazy Mixed-Up Salt
oil for frying
canned cream of mushroom soup

Spread a little mustard on the chops. –NOT TOO MUCH! ARE YOU NUTS? SCRAPE SOME OF THAT OFF!– That’s better. Just a schmear. Mix flour and salt and dredge the chops in it. Heat the oil and brown the chops on both sides. Drain off any oil/fat. Pour (or, as the case may be, glop) the soup over the chops. Reduce heat, cover, and cook slowly for about 30 to 45 minutes, depending on the thickness of the chops.

I usually served this with mashed potatoes or noodles to get the most mileage out of the sauce made by the soup.

Mustard Chops (without the chops)

Heat some butter or vegan margarine in a saucepan. Stir in some flour, prepared mustard, and Jane’s Krazy Mixed-Up Salt. Cook, stirring, until the flour has browned. Add the soup and stir until thoroughly mixed and heated. Add milk or water, if necessary. Serve over noodles.

I topped it with a little shaved cheese, and made roasted Brussels sprouts with almonds to go with it.

Not bad. Not bad.

A WRITING PROMPT FOR YOU: A character tweaks an old recipe with unintended consequences.

MA

One of the Things Love Looks Like

Click for full size

Several years ago, my husband and I went poking around at a garden center. I saw this corkscrew willow and fell in love with it. Charlie didn’t see the appeal, but he bought it for me and planted it out front.

Over the years, he’s watered it through droughts, pruned it, brushed it off and propped it up when heavy snows threatened to break it.

I still love my tree. I love it more and more and more because, the longer it lives, the more it looks like love.

I’m posting at Fatal Foodies today on the subject of tomatoes, and why we look so forward to them.

A WRITING PROMPT FOR YOU: What, outside of the standard lovey-dovey stuff, looks like love to your main character?

MA

Not For The Casual Reader

You know me, kids: I love a good goofball comedy or popcorn mystery. But that’s a gift that a few excellent teachers have given me: the choice. I can enjoy fluff because I enjoy it, not because I’m afraid I won’t understand something unless it’s simple. Sometimes you aren’t supposed to understand something, you’re supposed to worry it like a dog with a bone: not to understand it, but to enjoy the substance.

Anyway, my pal Michael Williams is here today to talk about “not for the casual reader”, which I think is a label as pride-worthy as “seven million copies sold” or “a zany laff riot”. If you don’t know why I think it’s funny that I’m sharing Michael’s post on April 15, see this definition.

Take it away, Michael!

~ * ~

Elsewhere I have written about my ambivalent thoughts following the blog tour for my most recent novel, Vine. However, Marian Allen is a long-time friend of mine, and in a recent conversation, I brought up a phrase from one of the reviews I received, and how the phrase struck me. Marian asked me to expand upon those thoughts and to post them here in her blog. So, let’s talk about “not for the casual reader”.

That was the phrase, and it came from a mixed review. I like mixed reviews, because they usually indicate (as this one did) close reading and close thought. The reviewer commented on the fragmentary style of the book (absolutely intentional) and its difficulty (perhaps a side effect of the fragmentary style). In both cases, I embrace the observation. My books aren’t for casual readers: there is a whole big market out there for precisely those readers, a market I decided to forgo early on as I discovered the kinds of books I like to write, and how they veer away from the casual.

I like a book that makes you work. I’m not reading for entertainment or escape alone, or at least not all of the time. I like writing that juggles words, that narrates in fragments or at a slant, that mashes story against story and asks me to draw the connections. Because when I make the connections myself, they are more powerful than when the writer spells them out for me: they show me that a story respects me, asks more of me than to sit there and watch.

Because we complete the stories we read. At the most basic levels—the levels at which we began to enjoy reading—we make pictures of characters, situations, and events, and get lost in the world of a book. It’s still the way I read a lot of fiction, because that’s the way the writer is asking me to read by the style and structure he or she has chosen. I try to accept it on the terms it presents.

Which means that when writers play over the surface and form of a text, perhaps they want to do something else—something in addition, or something altogether different. Perhaps they want to challenge you to try to read their work in a way that you are unaccustomed to reading.

Of course, there is plenty of bad writing that you reject outright, but it’s only fair (isn’t it?) to accept the story for the kind of story it is, to not listen to Jimi Hendrix the same way you listen to Brahms, because damn! is that fair to either one of them? So if it doesn’t work for you, set it down. Don’t get mad at the writer because you can’t drive his car to visit your relatives.

And for those who say that the primary duty of a writer is to the reader…well, you’re right. The reviewer I mentioned above nailed it when he said “not for the casual reader”. My duty is to the reader as well, but I find my readers generally want something that plays with the way a story is told, that keeps them on their toes in ways that they find amusing or fun. I don’t know whether you’d like my books—Marian tells me that she does, and I’m glad of that. But the only way to tell is to pick one up, give it a shot. I hope you like it, but if you don’t, there’s a world of good writing elsewhere.

Michael Williams’ Amazon Page

Magic Realism – Michael Williams’ blog

~ * ~

Thanks, Michael!

If you aren’t familiar with Michael Williams’ work, I highly recommend it.

A WRITING PROMPT FOR YOU: Write a character who likes to read difficult fiction. Make him or her NOT a pompous ass, a disconnected fuzz-brain, or any of the other stereotypes of people who enjoy difficult fiction.

MA

#SampleSunday – A Boy and His Mother

Here’s another excerpt from THE FALL OF ONAGROS, Book 1 of SAGE. Books 2 and 3 are due out by the end of this month.

The Fall of Onagros, Book 1 of SAGE – excerpt

by Marian Allen

Oliva beren Audre kept cold silence as her son crossed her private sitting room and took the chair she reserved for his particular use. It had been his favorite at the Thanehold: outsized and overstuffed, perfect for lounging in odd positions.

But Landry no longer lounged in odd positions. Landry now sat with regal dignity, even alone with his mother. If His Grace ever sprawled or lolled or folded himself in ways which looked uncomfortable but were not, his mother never saw it.

His mother seldom saw him privately at all, these days. Despite her best efforts, Oliva was finding herself – and Corvina was finding herself, in a separate campaign – blocked from the font of royal power, and blocked by the font himself.

Tonight, for example, Oliva had waited the Kinninger’s pleasure to grant her an interview, waited until long past midnight. In fact, the Thane suspected her son had gone to bed and had only come to her when he woke in the night and couldn’t sleep again.

He said nothing now, but waited for her to speak.

Oliva decided she had forced her last smile. “My Lord,” she said, not bothering, either, to cloak her voice’s chill with maternal softness, “your attendance honors me.”

Landry smiled a little, and inclined his head. He had waited long to hear such words in such a tone from her.

“My advice may be unwelcome,” Oliva went on, “or it may be unnecessary, but as I am no longer in your closest confidence, I cannot know. May I speak?”

Landry inclined his head again.

“It is time you remarried, My Lord. Ten years have passed since Karol’s murder was discovered, eight since you ‘avenged’ her. Layounna needs an heir. Or are you grooming Guthrie beren Melanell for that?”

Landry laughed. “My Chief Sword is my tool, and a very useful one, but hardly Kinninger material, and hardly fit to follow me.”

“Exactly so,” said Oliva, although she had been, and would continue to be, at pains to reward the Chief Sword’s courtesy. He might prove useful to others besides Landry. “And so you need an heir.”

“But an heir presupposes a wife, and I have no time for courting. I have no time for searching or for choosing, and I have no will to it.”

“Let me serve you in this, My Lord. I’ve given it much thought. If I may ask a blunt question: You want not only an heir, but an heir in your keeping and control, do you not?”

“Yes.”

“Then your wife must be in your keeping and control.”

“What woman would stand for that? A mental incompetent? What sort of mother to my heir is that?”

“She needn’t like it. She need only have no choice.”

“‘Refusal would be treason’? Is that the idea?”

“I had youth and inexperience in mind. Compliant parents, custody made luxurious and called protective, with Karol’s death and lack of heirs to justify it.”

Landry thought, then nodded. “That would do. Have you anyone in mind?”

“I would look for girls of fourteen to sixteen, who have not been much in society. The parents must be unimportant, subservient, and without power or powerful friends, yet they must be just well-bred enough to be worthy of connection to our line.”

Landry smiled again, then laughed. “I know the very woman you’ve described. Her father presented her to me last honors day as having come of age. Rather nondescript, but not ill-favored. The daughter of the Roll-Keeper. Darcy, his name is. Her mother is a public scribe and copyist.”

Oliva pulled a face. “Not so high as I would have looked.”

“But, oh, such compliant parents!” said Landry, with another laugh. “There’ll be no trouble from that quarter. Yes, young Whatever-her-name-is will do nicely.”

Landry rose and for the first time in years willingly kissed his mother’s cheek.

Oliva saw him out, not entirely pleased with the interview, but not entirely displeased, either. Landry had held her firmly in the place he had relegated to her. He had taken her advice, though he had plucked the project from her hands and dealt with it himself.

Landry was no longer swayed by his mother’s counsel. Oliva was content to see if his tender wife might not be swayed by her mother-in-law’s, and his heirs by their grandmother’s.

The Kinninger’s mother dreamed that night – dreamed of placing a crown on the head of a faceless child. The crown settled over the child’s head, onto its shoulders, and tightened into a collar. The crown stifled the child, but Oliva held the other end of an invisible leash and she made the body move to suit her purpose. No one but Oliva knew the child who wore the crown was dead.

~ * ~

Ain’t that sweet and tender? No? You’re obviously not an adherent of the House of Sarpa, then.

A WRITING PROMPT FOR YOU: What is your main character’s relationship with his/her mother? Has it always been the same? If not, how has it changed?

MA

#Caturday – I Beg A Boon Of Katya