Linda Welch's Blog, page 9

Sarah Woodbury goes medieval.

This week's creative Indie Chick is Sarah Woodbury, a prolific writer of historical fiction.

Turning Medieval by Sarah Woodbury

 

Sometimes it's easy to pinpoint those moments in your life where everything is suddenly changed.  When you look across the room and say to yourself, I'm going to marry him.  Or stare down at those two pink lines on the pregnancy test, when you're only twenty-two and been married for a month and a half and are living on only $800 a month because you're both still in school and my God how is this going to work?

 

And sometimes it's a bit harder to remember. 

Until I was eleven, my parents tell me they thought I was going to be a 'hippy.'  I wandered through the trees, swamp, and fields of our 2 ½ acre lot, making up poetry and songs and singing them to myself.  I'm not sure what happened by the time I'd turned twelve, whether family pressures or the realities of school changed me, but it was like I put all that creativity and whimsicalness into a box on a high shelf in my mind.  By the time I was in my late-teens, I routinely told people: 'I haven't a creative bone in my body.'  It makes me sad to think of all those years where I thought the creative side of me didn't exist. 

When I was in my twenties and a full-time mother of two, my husband and I took our family to a picnic with his graduate school department.  I was pleased at how friendly and accepting everyone seemed.

And then one of the other graduate students turned to me out of the blue and said, 'do you really think you can jump back into a job after staying home with your kids for five or ten years?'

I remember staring at him, not knowing what to say.  It wasn't that I hadn't thought about it, but that it didn't matter—it couldn't matter—because I had this job to do and the consequences of staying home with my kids were something I'd just have to face when the time came.

Fast forward ten years and it was clear that this friend had been right in his incredulity.  I was earning $15/hr. as a contract anthropologist, trying to supplement our income while at the same time holding down the fort at home.  I remember the day it became clear that this wasn't working.  I was simultaneously folding laundry, cooking dinner, and slogging through a report I didn't want to write, trying to get it all in before the baby (number four, by now) woke up.  I put my head down, right there on the dryer, and cried.

It was time to seek another path.  Time to follow my heart and do what I'd wanted to do for a long time, but hadn't had the courage, or the belief in myself to make it happen.

At the age of thirty-seven, I started my first novel, just to see if I could.  I wrote it in six weeks and it was bad in a way that all first books are bad.  It was about elves and magic stones and will never see the light of day.  But it taught me, I can do this!

My husband told me, 'give it five years,' and in the five years that followed, I experienced rejection along my newfound path.  A lot of it.  Over seventy agents, and then dozens and dozens of editors (once I found an agent), read my books and passed them over.  Again and again.

Meanwhile, I just wrote.  A whole series.  Then more books, for a total of eight, seven of which I published in 2011.

And I'm happy to report that, even though I still think of myself as staid, my extended family apparently has already decided that those years where I showed little creativity were just a phase. The other day, my husband told me of several conversations he had, either with them or overheard, in which it became clear they thought I was so alternative and creative—so far off the map—that I didn't even remember there was a map. 

I'm almost more pleased about that than anything else.  Almost.  Through writing, I've found a community of other writers, support and friendship from people I hadn't known existed a few years ago, and best of all, thousands of readers have found my books in the last year.  Here's to thousands more in the years to come . . .

 

Links:

 

My web page:  http://www.sarahwoodbury.com/

My Twitter code is:  http://twitter.com/#!/SarahWoodbury

On Facebook:   https://www.facebook.com/sarahwoodburybooks

Links to my books:  Amazon and Amazon UK Smashwords  BarnesandNoble  Apple

 

Cold My Heart is just one of the books featured in the Indie Chicks Anthology. Get your copy today! All royalties are donated to cancer research.

 

 

Suzanne Tyrpak tells us her inspirational story

Sometimes life changes in a day. I work for an airline, and this past summer a gigantic jet-stair ran over my toes. That got my attention. I'd been asking for a break, and boy did I get one! My story has a happy ending: the accident gave me time to finish my recently released novel, Hetaera—Suspense in Ancient Athens. It also gave me time to connect with the Indie Chicks; what a fantastic group of women! We wrote an anthology together and all the proceeds go to fighting breast cancer—the disease that took my mother. I hope you enjoy, Holes, my contribution to the Indie Chicks Anthology. Sometimes discovering our holes, our weakness, allows us to become more compassionate and ultimately more whole.

                                                 Holes    

I used to think I had to be perfect. Of course, I fell short of perfection on a regular basis so I frequently felt like a failure. 

The only way to prevent failure is to hide. If we don't put ourselves out there, we can't fail. 

To prevent myself from failing, I hid in a fantasy world. As a young child, I longed to be a ballerina. I loved to dance, but more than that, I wanted to escape into the fantasy world of the ballet. I wanted to live inside a fairytale, and in my mind, I did. I invented worlds I could escape to, perfect worlds that seemed more real to me than life. Meanwhile, I ate, and ate, and ate. Not ideal, if you want to be a ballerina. My reality never matched my inner world. 

I created this pattern, this external and internal disparity, throughout my life. I brought it into my marriage, convincing myself that my marriage was perfect, while in reality it was a mess. Instead of leaving, I found escape in writing. I lost myself other times: ancient Egypt, ancient Greece, ancient Rome—worlds as far away from my reality as possible. In my writing, I disappeared for hours, days, years. I got a job working at an airline so I could travel and do research. I got an agent. I felt sure I would be published.

Then my world fell apart. After nineteen years of marriage, my husband wanted a divorce. I fought it. Divorce didn't fit my idea of perfection, my fairytale. I viewed this loss as a disaster, but in truth it was an opening, a hole leading me to greater understanding and compassion for myself and others.

I was broke, trying to live on what I made at the airline. I was lonely. I had no time to write. Worst of all, I had to admit my life wasn't perfect. I wasn't perfect. Forced to accept myself with all my imperfections, I discovered that the more I could accept myself, the more I could accept others. Even my ex-husband. To this day, we remain friends.

Because I no longer had time to sit down and write for hours, the kind of time it takes to write a novel, I wrote short stories. I wrote about my experience, about my struggles as a woman of fifty going through divorce and entering the dating world. Initially, I wrote the stories for myself as therapy. Then I began to share the stories with my writing group. They encouraged me to submit the stories to magazines, and several were published. I read a couple of stories at our local library and people laughed. Then my good friend, Blake Crouch, convinced me to publish the stories on Kindle. A frightening prospect. What if my stories weren't good enough? What if they weren't perfect?

At first I resisted. I'd had two literary agents, and a longtime dream of being traditionally published. Self-publishing didn't fit my idea of perfection. But, in reality, I no longer had an agent, and I hadn't worked on a novel for several years. What did I have to lose? Nothing. So I published Dating My Vibrator (and other true fiction). 

My world changed, not because I was finally published, but because I changed. I finally found the confidence to pursue my dream despite my imperfections. I found the courage to stop hiding and put myself out into the world. This freed me.

I rewrote my novel, Vestal Virgin—suspense in ancient Rome. Originally, my characters were a bit flat. Why? Because they were too perfect! I hadn't looked at the manuscript for two years, and a lot had changed for me in that time. I rewrote the book with a cold eye: cutting, digging deeper. My characters became multifaceted, real people with flaws. 

I became busier and busier, caught in a whirlwind, trying to hold down a full-time job, write, promote my books and have a life. Trying, once again, to be perfect.

And then the universe stepped in.

I had an accident at work. While moving a jet stair (which weighed over 1,000 pounds) away from the aircraft, my right foot got crushed. I fell, screaming, onto the tarmac while passengers onboard the plane watched. A coworker rushed me to the hospital for the first of three emergency surgeries. I suffered intense pain due to nerve damage, broken and dislocated toes and, ultimately, amputation of a toe. As I write this, I'm still recovering. 

I spent five weeks at a nursing home, a good place for me (even though most of the patients were over eighty years old), because it would have been close to impossible for me to take care of myself at home. While there, I had a chance to meet a lot of the patients and residents. All of us had obvious holes. 

I learned a lot from the other patients. And I was forced to face my own mortality. Aging offers us the gift of acceptance. In order to age gracefully, we must the release the idea of perfection. We learn there are some things we can change, and some things we must accept. And, when we accept what is, we may find the good in even the most difficult situations. We learn to accept the holes in ourselves and others. We even welcome imperfection.

Since the accident, I've been thinking about holes a lot. I've been thinking about being whole, in relation to loss. How can loss make a person whole? I've learned that loss can make a person strong, more self-reliant. Loss can make us more compassionate to ourselves and others.

Where I had a toe, there's now a hole, and that hole reminds me that I'm not perfect. But, despite my imperfection, I am whole. I am me. It would be ridiculous to think that I am any less of a person, because I'm missing a toe, because I have a hole. Just as it's ridiculous for any of us to think we must be perfect.

Physical wounds can't be hidden as easily as emotional and psychological wounds. And that's a gift. Physical wounds make us confront our mortality, our humanity. Physical wounds can't be denied. They are tangible and force us to accept ourselves, with all our imperfections. 

It's impossible to get through life without being wounded. Some wounds are obvious. Others are internal, even spiritual: the loss of the ability to trust, to connect deeply, to hold a friend and know that you are loved. We run away from wounds. Try not to look at them. We think they're signs of weakness, but our wounds—the holes in us—provide a doorway, a soft spot in our armor. We walk around armored, protecting ourselves with platitudes and false smiles, never touching our own vulnerabilities, afraid to share our tender rawness with another or even with ourselves. If we can touch the tender spots, allow ourselves to feel fear, sorrow, loss, we become closer to wholeness. The more we accept our holes, the more compassion we can have for others. When we feel compassion we are able to connect. We are able to expose our soft underbelly to another human being and share the salt of our tears, the sweetness of our joy. That's what I want to write about, that's what I want to share, because salt makes all the difference between a bland, protected life, and a true life: pulsing, bloody, messy, passionate and truly whole.

Flaws, or holes, are what make a character seem real—in life and in fiction. Perfection is impermanent, an illusion. A person who seems too perfect is repulsive. We don't trust him. We know that person can't be real. Holes speak of truth. Holes allow us to connect, to ourselves and to each other. Our holes make us human, make us beautiful. Holes allow the light to shine through. 

If someone had asked me last spring, "Would you give up a toe in order to learn, in order to have time to write your next novel?" I might have said, "Yes." 

Funny, how life works.

Links:

My blog: Whose Imagining All This

Suzanne Tyrpack on Facebook

Twitter: SuzanneTyrpak

 Vestal Virgin—Suspense in Ancient Rome: Currently available on Amazon Amazon UK

Hetaera—Suspense in Ancient Athens: Currently available on Amazon  Amazon UK

 

This is only one of the stories featured in Indie Chicks Anthology. All proceeds go to charity. Get your copy today at Indie Chicks Anthology

The 2012 Game Plan

Funny how some things develop.  I wrote Along Came a Demon as a fun little novella, with the idea I'd do a sequel only if anyone was interested.  Somewhat to my surprise, they were interested, they wanted more. So I planned a four-book series.  Now, people are asking what happens next.

 

The series began with Royal meeting Tiff in Along Came a Demon, and ended with her discovering her origins in Demon Demon Burning Bright. The series is done. Over.  I've said all this before, I said it here, but not all Whisperings readers read this blog.  I also said readers can expect to see stand alone  Whisperings adventures and they will be coming, the first will be Demon on a Distant Shore. Will they expand on Tiff's history? Perhaps a little. Will Gia make a reappearance? Perhaps. And Chris Plowman? He does have a sleazy cameo appearance in Demon on a Distant Shore, but I don't know about future mysteries. I go where the muse takes me and she can be a contrary bitch.

 

In the meantime, I'm venturing into short stories.  I heard writing shorts is difficult, and by golly they are. No sooner do you get deep into a character's psyche, you have to leave them and go on to the next. It's like ripping out a part of you.  You can't do as much world-building. You can't spend time mapping out a character's full history. You have to leave a lot to the reader's imagination, and hope you gave them enough to make their imagination flow.

 

Coming spring 2012, Femme Fatales is unlike anything I have written before.  The five short stories are fantasy on a future earth. Yeah yeah, I know, been there done that. But although they are populated by trolls, vampires, angels, harpies and gargoyles, I don't think you'll have seen anything quite like them before. I hope not, anyway.

 

As part of my new game plan, I increased the price of Whisperings e-books. At the moment, Amazon is selling Along Came a Demon at $2.99 reduced to $0.99; The Demon Hunters, Dead Demon Walking and Demon Demon Burning Bright are $3.99 reduced to $2.99. Amazon will go to full price when the new prices siphon to online retailers via Smashwords. So if any of your friends have indicated they want to get Whisperings, now would be a good time.

 

One of the advantages of publishing as an Independent is that I see sales as they happen, so I want to send a huge thank you to everyone who's jumping in to get the Demon Demon Burning Bright e-book. And for those who prefer paperback, it's finally here, available from Amazon.com. Wohoo!

 

Stay warm, everyone.

 

 

 

Welcome Indie Chicks author Prue Batten.

This weeks Indie Chick is author Prue Batten!

 

The best way to describe myself would be to use a quote written about me by Mark Williams on a recent blog

 

Here it is: 'She lives in Tasmania, has a pet Tasmanian Devil called Gisborne, eats kangaroos' testicles, has the most ridiculous one-star ever awarded on Amazon, and wrote a novel on Twitter…'

 

Believe it or not, most of it is true. My husband and I own a farm so we do have lots of kangaroos around, but the testicles? Ugh! As to the Tasmanian Devil? I wish I did have one for a pet, but as recently reported in the Huffington Post the poor little things are suffering the ravaging effects of a disease that is bringing them to the edge of extinction. Better the scientists and conservation zoos look after them than me. And I do have a one star rating on Amazon… a woman bought my first book thinking it was an embroidery book despite the blurb and then gave ME a one star despite HER mistake. And yes, myself and 50 others wrote a Jane Austen style novel on Twitter which was mentioned by The Times (UK) no less as it took off earlier in the year.

 

Me in a nutshell!

 

 

AND HERE IS PRUE'S PERSONAL STORY, FEATURED IN THE INDIE CHICKS ANTHOLOGY:

 

 

Mrs. So Got It Wrong Agent.

 

 

 

After writing forever, I decided to finally go down the independent road in 2008. At that time, it was called self-publishing and the track I decided to take was POD. Part of my reason for the move was that my books had been declared commercially viable by the UK literary consultancy that assessed them, but in every instance they were declined by the Big Six.

 

The only time I had any sort of meaningful comment prior to POD publication was from a highly regarded English agent who said she loved the novels and knew she would kick herself for declining but felt I lived too far away to engage with. I know I reside in the southern hemisphere, in a place called Australia, but this is a new world in which we exist. Amazingly there is a thing called email, something else called Skype and even video-conferencing, so I was rather gobsmacked at her antiquated approach. This, I felt, was the time to take my destiny in my own hands!

 

You see, I was getting older and with age comes a degree of intransigence and that was when I took up the POD offer… basically in a fit of disgust at the 'old ways'.

 

I did everything right: good covers, great PR, super website and then a blog with which to engage with the reading public, even radio and print media interviews… you name it, I did it. Book Two came out and I continued to sell to a niche market online and in stores. At one point, my first novel took the prime display position in bricks and mortar stores, selling more than any other unknown first release for that chain.

 

Then, whilst working on A Thousand Glass Flowers, I had the misguided idea that it would be nice to secure an agent who could handle all this PR and marketing stuff and maybe help me push the barrow further. With the success of the first two novels under my belt, with stats of web and blog hits as well, I contacted the first Australian agent on my list.

 

Imagine my surprise when two days later, on a Friday afternoon, she rang me to talk business.

 

Her first comment after a loud monologue on her credentials was 'Why in the hell did you POD your first two books?' Ironic snicker followed this acid question.

 

'Because I was tired of submitting the old way and getting nowhere in a very long time.

 

'But you've signed your own death warrant.'

 

'Then why are you talking to me?'

 

'I am intrigued that you managed to get the web hits and the book-sales you have.' Her tone was sarcasm incarnate. Something about good books and hard work was on the tip of my tongue.

 

I was so flummoxed at this point that I allowed her to ram-raid me and roast me. Heaven help me, I agreed to send her mss of the first two novels (even though they had been published!) Perhaps I am a masochist. Who knows?

 

She read them and sent them back slashed to pieces. These were fantasy novels about love, loss, grief and revenge, novels that have secured 5 star reviews. She had deleted every conceivable piece of emotion from the manuscripts so that they expressed nothing. If she read them right through, I'd have been surprised as she asked elementary questions about the plot resolution… questions that were answered in the denouement of each of the novels. Her editing was unbelievable, her spelling appalling and she got my name and address wrong for the return of the mss. Now remember… this is supposedly one of the top agents in my country, top obviously not equating with manners and sensibility.

 

When I rang her to say politely, thanks but no thanks, she lambasted me and said, 'You are a self-fulfilling prophecy. Small-time.'

 

My reply was that if she had taken me on, what a good talking point she would have had about her exciting new author. As it was, I continued, I was declining any further involvement with her as my books were out there and selling.

 

'You have committed professional suicide.'

 

***

 

In the last three years, this agent is the only negative in my writing career and far from depressing me, it proved to be the biggest shot of tenacity in the arm! Reverse psychology at its very best!

 

So guess what, Mrs. So Got it Wrong Agent, I'm having a ball. The books are now in e-form and selling well. My third novel consistently took a place in the Top 100 of Kindle novels in its category not long after publication. I've sold across the globe, I have a niche following, I've made the friends of a lifetime and I am master of my own destiny. There are two further books to be published in The Chronicles of Eirie and in a step sideways, my first ever historical fiction will be published in February.

 

And at this point in my life, I don't regret not having an agent one bit!

 

***

 

Addendum: Whilst writing this piece for the anthology, I nursed my little muse, the dog who would jump up behind me on my chair and sit whilst I typed. He had terminal cancer and in the intervening time between publication of the anthology and the posting of my piece on these blogs, he has gone quietly to his rest… a brave, funny companion who was my inspiration. I dedicate the above tale to him… to Milo.

 

 

This is only one of the stories featured in Indie Chicks Anthology, 25 Women, 25 Personal Stories. Pick up your copy at Indie Chicks Anthology. All proceeds go to cancer research and support.

 

 

 

 

Website:  pruebatten.com

Blog: Mesmered Blog

Follow Prue on Twitter

On Facebook: Prue Batten

 

Books may be purchased at: Amazon.co.uk http://amzn.to/v2mosZ

 

And at Amazon.com http://amzn.to/rHBVoy

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I'm delighted to start 2012 with a guest post by Cheryl Shiremen

Cheryl is the mastermind behind the Indie Chicks Anthology.  She is our mentor and our inspiration, and an out and out nice lady. She is also, like me, a grandma who has discovered there are more important things than writing.

 

 

I Burned My Bra For This? One Woman's Fantasy

 

By Cheryl Shireman

 

I'm a Baby Boomer. Which means that I remember bell-bottoms, Happy Days, and having only three channels on the television. I played Donny Osmond albums on a record player. My parents watched Gunsmoke, and on Sunday nights we all watched The Wonderful World of Disney. In the living room. Together. On the only television we owned. Imagine that! I remember the first time I saw Bonanza in color. I remember the first time I heard about remote controls for televisions. The whole idea seemed ridiculous. With three channels, really, how often would it be needed? I remember the Watergate hearings playing on the television when I came home from school. 

 

I also remember watching feminists (does anyone use that word anymore?) burn their bras and march for equal rights. I grew up believing that a woman deserves equal pay for equal work and that a woman is not defined by the man she marries or by the children she gives birth to. In fact, we were told that both men and children were optional. The idea seemed revolutionary at the time. It still does. Women were mad as hell and they weren't taking it anymore. We called it Women's Liberation, and though it was never said, it was certainly implied (and believed in most circles) that a woman who did not work was a bit inferior to a career woman. That was when such women were called housewives and not "stay at home" moms. Women were divided into two groups – those who worked and those who didn't. Back then, no one thought that staying home and taking care of a family and home was work. The women of my generation wanted more, demanded more, and believed we were entitled to just that – more. We sometimes looked at our own mothers, most of whom did not have real jobs, as women who simply did not understand that there was more to life than being a mother. If truth be told, we thought they were a bit simple-minded and we secretly vowed to do more with our lives.

 

And yet…as this Baby Boomer looks at her life, I realize nothing I have ever done, or will ever do, is as important as being a mother. Not career, volunteer work, graduate school, or any creative pursuit. Nothing else even comes close to being a mother. Period.

 

One of my children lives half an hour away, another is one state away, and the third is on the other side of the world in Denmark. Yesterday, my husband and I spent the entire day with our two-year-old granddaughter. She then spent the night. As I write this, I hear her gentle breathing in the baby monitor positioned atop the table close to where I sit.

 

To say that my children, and now my granddaughter, have filled my life with love and joy is an understatement. As children, they expanded my heart in ways I could never have imagined. For the first time in my life, I not only understood, but received unconditional love. As adults, they are three people that I know I can always count on. They will always be there for me. Just as I will always be there for them. Can you say the same about your career?

 

There used to be a television show called Fantasy Island. People visited the island and lived out their fantasies – no matter how wild (okay, not that wild – this was primetime family tv in the seventies). Not too long ago, my husband and I had a discussion about that old tv show and asked each other – What would your fantasy be? Mine was easy. If I could have a Fantasy Island day, I would relive one day with my children. My son would be 10, which would make my daughters 4 and 2. We would spend the day doing whatever they wanted. Going to the park, going to the movies, playing games, baking cookies, or just sitting on the floor playing with Legos and Barbies. I would hug them a lot. And kiss the tops of their heads. And take tons of pictures. I wouldn't cook. I wouldn't clean. And I wouldn't worry about my career.

 

I would watch my son show his younger sisters how to do things, like he always did in his older brother sort of way. I would watch my 2 year-old daughter follow her older 4 year-old sister around the room, shadowing her every move. Just as she did, even through their college years when they shared an apartment near Indiana University. I would watch the older sister taking care of her younger sister, as if she were her baby. Which is what she called her when she was born – my baby.

 

Bedtime would be later than usual on that fantasy night. I would tuck them into their beds, fresh from baths and smelling of shampoo. The girls smelling like baby lotion. My son would hug me goodnight with his long skinny arms and tell me he loves me. And I would feel the truth in that. I would tuck in my girls and tell them it is time to go to sleep. I would take extra care in covering the older girl's feet, because she always kicked her blankets off during the night. I would kiss the baby and hold her a little longer, because I would know that, as I type this she is in Denmark which makes visiting tough.

 

And, as I walk down the hall and turn out the lights, I would call out to all of them, as I always did… "Goodnight. Love you. Sweet dreams. See you in the morning."

 

And that would be my fantasy day. Oddly enough, it has nothing to do with my career as a writer. Even though being a writer has always been my dream. My first novel, Life is But a Dream: On the Lake, was published earlier this year. The main character, Grace Adams, is a woman facing an empty nest and the possible demise of her marriage. Grace withdraws to a secluded lake cabin to redefine her life and try to find a reason to continue living. While at the lake, Grace not only finds renewed purpose and hope, but when things take a turn for the worse at the lake, she finds a strength she never knew she possessed. The novel is thought-provoking, sometimes frightening, and often funny (just like life). It is also, very definitely, fiction.

 

I'm not Grace. Even though my "nest" is empty, I am enjoying this time and this new focus on my career. I am not suicidal or lacking in purpose. My husband and I both work from home (he designs websites), we live on a lake, and our schedule is our own. It is truly a wonderful time in our lives. Sometimes I have popcorn for dinner. Enough said.

 

But, would my current life be as wonderful if I had not pursued career and graduate school and developed the skills I am using now? Probably not. I managed to combine work and school and motherhood. I believed I could have it all, and do it all, but to be honest – the kids always came first. And being a mother is the strongest and best part of my identity. It is the thing I am most proud of. My greatest achievement. And, once in a while, I miss those days when toys where scattered across the floor, the washer was always running, and we bought eight gallons of milk a week.

 

If you have children at home, cherish those simple every-day moments with them. They really will be gone in the blink of an eye – sooner than you can possibly imagine. Put this book down. Now. Go sit on the floor and play a game. Pop some popcorn, put on one of their favorite movies, and cuddle up on the couch. Live that "fantasy" right now. You will never be able to recapture these moments. Enjoy them now. There is no greater gift than the love of your children. Spend the rest of your day letting it pour over you. And pour your love right back over them. You can come back to this book tonight, after they are asleep.

 

As I type this, I can hear my granddaughter waking up. I am shutting my computer off. Right now, I am going to go upstairs and scoop her up from her crib. She will probably wrap her little arms around my neck and ask, "Play blocks, Bomb Bomb?"

 

And we will play blocks.

 

 

This is one story from Indie Chicks: 25 Women 25 Personal Stories available on Amazon and Barnes & Noble. To read all of the stories, buy your copy today. All proceeds go to the Susan G. Komen Foundation for Breast Cancer.

 

Also included are sneak peeks into 25 novels! My novel, Life Is But a Dream: On The Lake, is one of the novel excerpts featured. It is available at most online retailers in trade paperback as well as e-book formats.

 

Amazon US

Amazon UK

Barnes & Noble

 

Camilla Chafer's Christmas Giveaway

[image error]

My friend author Camilla Chafer is doing a book giveaway on her Facebook page. Hop on over there and you may get some free books! Camilla writes the Stella Mayweather paranormal mysteries: Illicit Magic, Unruly Magic, and has just released number 3, Devious Magic.

 

Chestnuts roasting on a open fire.

We did roast chestnuts on an open fire, but I preferred crumpets. Crumpets are tasteless, but when the outsides are golden brown and you slather them with butter until the tiny holes can barely hold it, then top them with strawberry jam . . . mm mm mm. And they seemed to taste even better when toasted over the fire on the end of long forks on Christmas Eve.

 

Draped with silver tinsel, hung with colored glass balls and transparent glass icicles, tiny tin candleholders holding tiny candles clipped to the branches, the tree glittered in the corner of the room. Christmas did not begin in October, or November. It began a few days before Christmas Day when Dad went into the woods and came home with our tree which he dug up roots and all, so it could be planted in the garden after Christmas.

 

Holly with glossy red berries draped the mantle and tops of picture frames. Our homemade decorations sat on the sideboard, bookshelves, desk and tables: hand-size logs we covered with glue before sprinkling on silver or gold glitter, then attaching miniature Christmas trees, sprigs of holly, miniature Father Christmas, tiny colored glass balls, anything colorful we could find. Our homemade garlands stretched across the ceiling from one side of the room to the other, strips of shining colored paper we glued into circles and put together like daisy chains.

 

A few family presents sat beneath the tree, but Father Christmas left presents for us in pillow cases at the ends of our beds. No matter how late we stayed awake, we never caught him. Our stockings – Dad's socks – hung from the mantle. Perhaps we would find a half-crown piece in the toe, and a small toy, along with the apple, orange and nuts, on Christmas morning.

 

And the food! Boxes of chocolates, bowls of nuts, fresh fruit, Newberry Fruits, Turkish Delight, crystallized ginger and chocolate biscuits fought for position on every flat surface in the living room. Sherry and Guinness for Mum and Dad, Raisin and Orange wine for the children. Dinner on Christmas Day was roast turkey with three stuffings: sage and onion, parsley and thyme and chestnut; mashed potatoes, roast potatoes, brussels sprouts, roast parsnip, tiny sausages wrapped in bacon, bread sauce, lashings of gravy, followed by Christmas Pudding with brandy sauce or heavy cream. Tea was thick slabs of boiled ham and thick slices of Cheddar in sandwiches with Branston Pickle or Piccalilli. Egg and bacon pie, pork pie, sausage rolls. Mincemeat tarts, English trifle, and Christmas Cake dark and moist with brandy or rum, and the Yule Log dusted with icing sugar. And after tea, we pulled the Christmas Crackers, collected the small prizes and wore the paper crowns, even Mum and Dad.

 

We bought pretty foil ceiling decorations in later years, and the candles on the tree were declared a fire hazard. We bought a small artificial tree that could be packed away with the decorations and used again the following year. The sweet, non-alcoholic Raisin wine was nowhere to be found. I grew up, left home, married and left my country. But England will always be home, and I remember the Christmas of my childhood every year at this time.

 

When our sons were small, Santa Claus left their presents in pillowcases on the ends of their beds, and although they are too fragile to use now, I still have a box of homemade paper garlands.

 

Merry Christmas, my friends and loved ones. May the joy and spirit of the season enhance your lives and bring us closer together.

Katherine Owen

Today, self-confessed Fictionista Katherine Owen tells us how she followed her dream.

 

 

One Fictionista's Literary Bliss

By: Katherine Owen

I was anointed a female fictionista by an overzealous Georgia Bulldog fan on Twitter. I immediately took it for my job description.  So, here's what you should know. I write. I write a lot. And, when I'm not writing, I think about writing a lot. You may think we're having a conversation, but invariably I'm stealing your name, asking how to spell it, and secretly describing the look on your face in five words or less in my mind. My writing tends to be dark, moody, and sometimes funny. Sometimes, it can be a bit lyrical or even literary. It's often edgy, so be forewarned. My readers complain they can't put my books down. Or, just when they think they've figured the story out, it changes and becomes something else. My stories tend to be dark and comprised of broken heroines; even the heroes in my books have a few flaws that cause trouble. It's true; my characters may disappoint you or surprise you or piss you off, but I think you'll understand why they do what they do because of the way I write them. I strive to reveal the deepest underpinnings about life, about love, and about human nature, but it's not for the faint of heart. I'll take you through a proverbial emotional ringer before reaching resolution and it's never as predictable as you might think. Do I sound like your kind of fictionista? Come along, darling. This way.

 

Something else you should know about me is that I'm a huge George Clooney fan. Maybe, Up In The Air wasn't one of his usual gigs, but I loved that movie. And, let's be frank, I watched ER without him for years, but it was never the same. Never. Anyway, I digress. There's a scene in Up In The Air where he's telling this guy to follow his dream after George has told him he's been laid off.  When I saw that scene, it was as if George was practically speaking to me because I was there, two years ago, when I was laid off from a high tech sales job, had always harbored a dream to write full-time, and went for it after that. Is it a coincidence that Up In The Air came out about the same time? I think not. 

 

So now, this is what I do. Write. Write all the time. I'll admit it was hard at first. It still is—hard, harrowing, humbling. Believe me, it would be easier to go out and get another high paying sales job than write for a living because writing causes me to question my mental toughness so much of the time. Can I do this? Am I good enough?

 

 

Yet, here's what I've learned: you just have to turn off that voice in your head off or ignore what is being said.  Sometimes, all you need to do is stand up for yourself, stop depending upon the opinions of others, and just go after what you really want.

 

For me, that's writing. For you, it might be anything else, but just pursue your passion whatever it is.

 

With this anthology, my debut novel, Seeing Julia is featured. Seeing Julia is a labor of love and represents a lot of hard work. Truly, this book has caused me as much grief as it has joy. After I first wrote this novel, I entered it into a literary contest and promptly forgot about it. I was busy. I was taking classes at The Writer's Studio, becoming literary savvy, and writing another novel called Not To Us.

 

I remember it was a Monday morning in early June of 2010 when I received a call from the president of the Pacific Northwest Writers Association telling me I was a finalist in the romance category with my entry of Seeing Julia. "What?" She asked me if I planned on attending the conference. "Well, I guess so." Lucky for me, I attended the summer conference, bought a new outfit, and won the Zola Award and first place with Seeing Julia the night of the awards dinner. It was a surreal moment, when I had to go up to the front of the room with those seven hundred people watching and accept my award. But, truly? I was more concerned about navigating all those tables and chairs on my way up to the podium than actually seizing the moment. As word spread about my writing award win, self-doubt had already set in. It was a fluke. It was dumb luck. As high as my emotions soared about winning; they fell just as fast when literary agents still rejected my work. Yes, the win opened a number of literary agent doors for me, but I wrote several different versions of that novel when a number of them took greater interest, but then wanted to change everything about the story. One agent called me up and lectured me for forty-five minutes about the book and then promised to take a look if I made more changes. I sent her the revised manuscript, but she never called again.

 

This was a year ago. I was at a crossroads with my writing and myself. I kept thinking if I did what they said and changed it, yet again, I would get to the next step—literary bliss. But I wasn't getting anywhere.

 

Discouraged, but still determined, I reviewed what the critiques and feedback about Seeing Julia had been. Based on those, I sifted through what I thought would need to be changed and began rewriting the story, working day and night through most of November. With just getting a few hours of sleep each night, I kept up the intense pace and by the time the novel was finished; I knew it was. I'm extremely proud of Seeing Julia. During the process of rewriting it for the last time, I reached an important pinnacle with my writing: I trusted myself. Confidence entered into the realm. And, along with it, swift understanding: I had to make my own literary bliss.

 

Two additional things became clear. First, it was essential for me to have complete control over the publishing of my work; and second, the publishing industry was in the midst of a perfect storm because of e-books and I needed to take full advantage. And, so I did.

 

In late April and early May of this year, I released two novels: Seeing Julia and Not To Us. These books are available as e-books as well as print trade paperbacks.

 

Many wonderful readers have responded to my work. They often reach out to me and let me know how they love my novels. I love and cherish their enthusiasm for my work.

 

This is literary bliss.

 

Of course, my family's number one complaint is that I write too much and all the time. Now, add to that the twittering and the facebooking and the wordpressing and now google plus-ing, and checking Amazon, and taking writing classes; it's a full-time gig. But, I wouldn't have it any other way.

 

The good news is that with the encouragement of my readers and confidence in my writing, I'm working on my third novel, When I See You, and hope to release this book before the end of this year.  And, I already have drafts for two other novels, Saving Valentines and Finding Amy.

 

 

Oh yes, there are occasions, rare ones, when I'm not writing. That's when I like to drink a fine wine, check in with my family, and look at my awesome view which I can see when I look up long enough from my computer screen in my writing refuge.

 

And so, welcome. Welcome to my little piece of the universe.

 

I'll leave you with this—a philosophy I now live by, borrowed from one of the greatest women tennis players of all time: "You've got to take the initiative and play your game. In a decisive set, confidence is the difference."  Chris Evert

 

Oh, Chrissy, you are so right!

 

***

This is one story from Indie Chicks: 25 Women 25 Personal Stories available on Amazon and Barnes & Noble. To read all of the stories, buy your copy today. All proceeds go to the Susan G. Komen Foundation for Breast Cancer.

 

Also included are sneak peeks into 25 novels! My novel, Seeing Julia, is one of the novel excerpts featured. It is available at most online retailers in trade paperback as well as e-book formats.

 

Seeing Julia on:

Amazon

Amazon UK

Barnes and Noble

Apple/iTunes

Smashwords (various e-book formats for Sony e-book, Kobo, Apple iBooks and Diesel)

 

For more information about Katherine Owen, visit these links:

Katherine's website

Katherine's Blog

Amazon Author Page

Follow Katherine on Twitter

Connect on Facebook

Katherine on Tumblr

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Gift from Whisperings

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In the spirit of the season, I would like to gift Whisperings book one, Along Came a Demon, to the first 10 Kindle users and first 10 Nook users who leave a comment.

 

All you have to do is tell me Amazon or Barnes and Noble, and give me the email address you use for your account so I can gift the book. Your email will not be published.

 

Merry Christmas!

 

Linda

 

DEMON DEMON BURNING BRIGHT: PLUS 1 BOOK, MINUS 1 AGENT, AND KINDLE SELECT.

 

When I get around to publishing to Smashwords, it will also be available on Smashwords, Sony, Apple, Kobo and Diesel. The paperback version will be up on Amazon US in January.

 

Phew! I was seriously frazzled this past week. My mind was so full of editing, thoughts of Christmas preparation yet to come, I thought I'd lose it. I'm SO glad I can take a break from writing and get on with other stuff. Mind you, I say that today, but tomorrow I may be chewing the cushions because I'm not writing!

 

 I plan to publish Demon on a Distant Shore early in the new year. I wrote it in 2010, then decided Tiff needed to have her personal mysteries solved before she took a break from Dark Cousins and zipped off to England. I admit, Demon on a Distant Shore is an indulgence. I remember the culture shock when I first came to the States and wanted to see how Tiff coped with it. Writing the book was fun!

 

And huge thanks to the readers who jumped in and got Demon Demon Burning Bright the moment it hit Kindle. The sales don't show on the product page yet, but do on my KDP page. You are THE best!

 

NO AGENT NO MORE.

 

Last week I asked my agent to release me from my contract, which he did. No doubt writers who are sweating bullets in their quest to find an agent will think I'm crazy. But the decision was easily made. I didn't pursue an agent to begin with; he approached me. I was happy where I was, but an offer of representation by the chairman of a top NYC agency  – which in 2010 was ranked number one in sales for the sixth straight year by Publisher's Market place – was flattering. Sure, I was excited, but the excitement faded when he did not follow through on statements of intent. He contacted me last week and asked if I would like to publish Along Came a Demon as an e-book through their new e-book department instead of going after a book deal with a traditional publishing house.

 

When I read a detailed list of what the agency offered with their new e-book initiative, I saw I would have to spend a lot of money, and still be the publisher, yet the agency would get a percentage of my royalties on top of what online retailers took. I replied that Along Came a Demon is already a published e-book selling through multiply retailers, and I considered the move a conflict of interest. So, can you let me out of my contract, please?

 

And, honestly, I'm relieved. I enjoy publishing as an Independent and having control over my work. I get paid once a month instead of every quarter. I can see how many books I've sold soon after they sell. I LOVE my one-on-one relationships with Whisperings fans. I see so many benefits to being the publisher, not the client.

 

I'm free!

 

AMAZON'S LENDING LIBRARY.

 

KDP Select is a hot topic with authors. I won't go into the specifics of the program here, but you could read David Gaughran's very informative article, How Much Do You Want to Get Paid Tomorrow? Jumping in does have advantages. If your book is borrowed, it counts as a sale and reflects on your ranking.  And if you have published more than one book, it may encourage readers to buy your other books. I am not participating, chiefly because I sell on other e-book retailers and I'd have to pull my books from them. Many authors have joined; some have joined then opted out. I recommend that authors read the small print before joining.