Nerine Dorman's Blog, page 102

Guest post: Autumn Christian

Today I allow my fellow Tales of Darkness and Dismay author, Autumn Christian, loose on my blog. Welcome, Autumn...
I'll be honest, I've had to rewrite this blog post about four times. I'm nervous about the face I present to the Internet, and as a former closet writer I'm just getting used to talking about my writing to strangers. As a twenty-two year old, I don't feel inclined to offer writing advice like some kind of pulp war hero, nor am I yet past the phase where I can promote myself without feeling an odd sort of unworthiness. My girlfriend recently took me to her aunt's house for Christmas dinner. I felt like a strange creature in my doc martens and lace dress, sitting at the dinner table squeezing the tablecloth between my fingers.
"Congratulations on Autumn's new book!" said this foreign family as they toasted me with wine and I tried to smile but instead hid my face into my shoulder.
"What kind of book is it?"
"Horror fiction," I said, voice quiet, and the subject was quickly changed.
Nevertheless, I'm pleased to announce the release of my e-novella from Dark Continents, A Gentle Hell, which is part of the Tales of Darkness and Dismay. It can be purchased from amazon here. A Gentle Hell is comprised of four dark fiction short stories. Described as "surreal," "beautiful and melancholy," and "The Thinking Person's horror":
In They Promised Dreamless Death a salesmen sells sleep with the promise of a better life, but what dreams lurk beneath the substrate of consciousness for those who take it are stranger than they ever imagined.
In Your Demiurge is Dead, while the world adjusts to the death of God and the new reign of the Triple Goddess, Charles hunts for an Oklahoma murderer and is forced to confront his religious ideals when he encounters a new prophet.
The Dog That Bit Her, is the story of a neurotic young woman who gains freedom from her co-dependent marriage with the bite of a rabid dog.
And in the semi-autobiographical The Singing Grass, the artist and the writer converge at a meadow haunted by a carnivorous deer and the burnt monsters that show them the consequences of an artistic life.
If you'd like to follow me around the Interwebs, you can find me at my website autumnchristian.net, on twitter at @autumnxtian or on facebook.
- Autumn

Link round-up

This week has seen a frenzy of writing on my side. Which is probably why I've been a bit "not quite there" in the real world as I'm currently 23 000 words into my current work in progress, which I started last Sunday. All I can say at this point is that it involves vampires and is set in a secondary world, with a pseudo-Victorian feel to it. The really sucky working title is Heart of a Dhampir. Yes. It sucks my big toe but I don't know what else to call it right now.

Now, for the linkage. First up this week is an interview with Severin, the vampire who features in my most recent Lyrical Press release, What Sweet Music They Make. Xan Marcelles, who needs very little introduction to regulars in my world, is the brainchild of Carrie Clevenger, one of my writing partners. Do stop by and check it out.

It's always lovely when people pick up my older writing. A book blogger over at Heroes and Heartbreakers really enjoyed Khepera Rising, my debut release at Lyrical Press. She made it one of her "best of January" picks. Swing by here and see what she says.

Then, I spent a little time hanging out with fellow Dark Continents author AJ Brown at his blog. It was a riotous interview which provided me with many giggles. Do swing by.

Cathy Olliffe-Webster gives my favourite vampire, Xan, some airtime and Blood and Fire gets a bit of link love. And yes, I find long-haired rockers in tight jeans extremely delicious.

Lastly, if you haven't read my Friday Flash piece yet, here it is. It has a fanged theme this week for all those vampire lovers. Now that I look at it in hindsight, I realise it's a bit of a stab at the Tweelight mythos.

Friday Flash: Kissing the Dawn

"Oh, don't be dramatic," I told Sam. "You honestly think she cares that you fry yourself at sunrise?"
Sam sniffed loudly and rubbed at his eyes. His tears stained his cheeks red—a serious downside for a vampire showing strong emotions in a public place. Luckily we were on the roof of Senator Park and no sensible mortal would think to hang out up here an hour before dawn.
"I don't see any point to this existence," he wailed. "Everyone I love's gonna grow old and die, and I'll be all on my own."
"I've got news for you, old chap. You've been all on your own since the day you were born. Being a vampire ain't gonna change that. You just think you've got friends but they're all back-stabbing little shits in the end." I glanced toward the east, where the night faded a little lighter on the ridges of the mountains. Not enough to give warning tingles on my exposed flesh but I'd run from enough sunrises to know when it became dangerous for our kind to be out and about. Below us the city still slumbered but the first delivery trucks were already on the road. I could sense the world stirring.
Sam hissed at me then; showed a flash of fang. "Easy for you to say. You've got years on me. You've had plenty of practice."
I almost felt sorry for the poor bastard. He sat on the edge, legs dangling into the void, dreadlocks half obscuring his face. Sam was just some tranced-out hippie kid who had turned up undead in my stomping ground a year ago. He had no idea who his sire was and no one laid claim to him, so I had sort of took him under my wing. Not that the ungrateful little wretch showed me any gratitude.
I merely stared at him then lit a cigarette. I had time for a smoke before I vanished back inside. He glared back at me and, to give him some credit, lasted almost two minutes before he looked away first. Sure, I had years on him. A whole five years. Like that made a difference when we were both way beneath the vampire elders' notice.
"I went home a year after I got turned," I told him. "My sire told me not to. Told me it was stupid."
Sam's head shot up, though he didn't look at me.
"I went to see if my cherry was still okay. I missed her, you know. She never did find out what happened to me. My supposed 'death' was a missing person's report in the False Bay Echo. I'd gone out for a pint with my mates at The Vic and I'd never come home. They found my car parked by the beach. No sign of my body.
"So, I caught the train out one evening. It was winter so the sun was long down. Figured I could hole up somewhere then catch the train out the following night, or something. I'd make a plan. I just needed to see her. Maybe go on to see if my parents were still around but I really, really wanted to see Marissa..." I had to stop then. I didn't want to remember.
"What then?" Sam mumbled.
"Oh, she still stayed in the backflat on Seventh Avenue." I laughed, the sound bitter. "My luck was in. She was home too. I even went so far as to press my nose against the glass and peer in like a regular Peeping Tom. She was there on the couch. A new boyfriend all cuddled with her. They were eating popcorn and watching TV. He had his hand on her breast." I didn't add that she looked about eight months pregnant.
"And?"
"And nothing," I said while I ground the cigarette butt under my boot. "I'm still here. She's there. We get on with life. We make new connections. Some of us live for three score and ten years like they say in the Bible. Some of us live until we're stupid dumb-ass little shits who sit outside and wait for the sunrise." With that I left him.
Yeah, I reckoned it would bother me if he self-immolated. Kissing the dawn—as we called it—was not uncommon but it sure as hell was a painful way to ensure final death. And, though I'd never admit it to him, I kinda liked the kid's company. His naïveté perked up my nights. But it wasn't like I was his boss or anything. Free will.
I shut the door to the roof firmly behind me and trotted down the fire escape stairs until I got to the sixth floor. Senator Park never really slept. Even now my Tanzanian neighbors argued loudly in the apartment next to mine. The ganja smoke hung heavy in the hallway and I slunk into the one-bedroom unit I shared with Sam.
My muscles ached—my body still recovering from me accidentally having partaken of hepatitis-infected blood. Chilling out seemed like a very good idea. I threw myself down on my mattress, checked that the black-out curtains were drawn to firmly and picked up the dog-eared copy of Mary Shelley's Frankenstein I was trying to read for the nth time.
A key grated in the lock shortly before sunrise proper, and Sam slunk in. He didn't say much but threw himself down on his mattress, an arm slung over his face.
"Chicken," I said with a smirk then made a few squawking noises.
"Fuck you." The tossed copy of Penthouse that came my way fluttered like a dying bird. I was pretty sure Sam and I would be dodging quite a few more dawns in each other's company.

A few words with Tracie McBride

Today, fellow author and dweller of the southern hemisphere, Tracie McBride, joins me on my blog. Like me, she wears many hats, and not only writes but edits. Welcome, Tracie!
You've been writing for quite a while now, and have short stories available in a number of anthologies. Can you tell us a little about the general theme of your tales? Which of your shorts are your three favourites of all time, and also, would you ever plan on a novel-length work?
One of the advantages of being a short story writer is that I have the luxury of exploring a multitude of themes. Having said that, there are some I keep returning to because they're lodged deep down in my psyche. Often I'll intertwine the banality and familiarity of modern-day suburban life with surreal or horrific elements. Parenthood and other familial relationships also come under the microscope often.
I'm glad you asked for my three favourites instead of just one, because it's a bit like having to choose which one of my children is my favourite. In no particular order, I choose – Baptism, in which a young friar attempts to convert a pod of predatory mermaids to Christianity.
Ghosts Can Bleed, the title story of my collection, which deals with themes of grief and the despair of a life lived without meaning.
Last Chance To See, the story of a woman who is killed in a car accident and is given a 'loaner' prosthetic body to extend her life by another 24 hours. This story was inspired by my aunt Noeline who died of cancer in 2008.
Writing a novel remains an elusive goal; the official line is that I'm waiting for a novel-worthy idea to come to me, but the truth is that the thought of writing a novel scares me. I enjoy the immediacy of the short story, the more readily attainable goal of completion and publication, the liberty to experiment with voice and structure that is harder to get away with in longer works, and the challenge of expressing my ideas in as few words as possible.
The short story is quite a different beast from novella and novel-length works. What, in your opinion, are the hallmarks of a great short story? What are some of the issues you see in short story submissions for anthologies?
I have particular tastes in short stories. I like a story that makes me sit back at the end and say, "Damn, I wish I'd thought of that." Stories that leave a little mystery and room for the reader to interpret it in their own way.Stories that are elegantly constructed with subtle and well-crafted (but never over-laboured) imagery.
I read slush Dark Moon Digest, a US-based horror magazine. The number one issue is a poorly crafted story. If a writer mixes up his or her tenses, doesn't know how to punctuate dialogue correctly or hands out adverbs like lollies, then I find it difficult to see past the craft to the story within. Number two is a lack of originality. I come across a lot of clichéd concepts and overused tropes.
Electronic publishing has created fantastic opportunities for writers, but it's also resulted in a slew of published works that needed a bit of extra spit and polish before release. What's your advice to writers who're embarking on self-publishing?
Oh boy – you're trying to get me into trouble, aren't you? I'm full of advice for indie writers, especially for those at the beginning of their career, but I find that many of them aren't very receptive to constructive (or any) criticism. I'll try to limit it to three key pieces of advice.
1) In the absence of a competent editor (and let's face it, how many indie writers can afford one?) join a critique group. In particular, join a group that has members who are further along in their writing career than you are.
2) Learn to accept criticism with good grace. Even better, learn to heed it.
3) Read widely. Read outside your favourite genres. Read intensively within your favourite genres. Buy books on the craft of writing. Keep those books by your bedside and re-read them until you've memorised them.
Small presses. There are hundreds, if not thousands more of them around compared to just a few years ago, and it seems like every Tom, Dick and Harry considers himself a publisher. How does one discern whether a publisher is legit, and what are the benefits of entrusting one's writing to a small press as opposed to going it alone?
I don't know if I'm the right person to ask this question. Because I write short stories and poetry, I have less invested in finding the 'right' publisher, so I have a cavalier attitude to choosing a publisher; if they promise to pay me for my contribution and send me a contributor copy, then they're OK by me. But for fledgling novelists, my advice is to become involved in the writing community (although the act of writing is a solitary exercise, the business of being a writer is not). Join writers' groups, Facebook groups and professional organizations such as the HWA. Listen out for news, watch where other writers are submitting and observe who wins awards. Dodgy or under-performing publishers will be outed soon enough.
For me, the biggest advantage of signing with a small press is that it provides me external validation and an honest appraisal of the value of my work; they're not my mother, they're not my best friend, they don't have to say they like my work if they don't want to, and yet here they are saying that they like it well enough to pay me for the privilege of publishing it. Another advantage is that, although small presses don't have the resources of a major publishing house, they can still expose your book to a wider audience than you can reach on your own. And unless you're a particularly multi-talented or resourceful writer, the editing, layout and cover design work will be superior to what you'll be able to afford or achieve on your own.
Please tell us a bit more about your title that's just seen release with Dark Continents' Tales of Darkness and Dismay collection. What were your intentions when you and John Irvine started discussing initial concepts?
The collection is called April Fool and other Antipodean horror stories. It contains three short stories by John Irvine and two by me. John and I share a country of origin (New Zealand), a love of speculative poetry and brevity in storytelling, and a certain dark and dry sense of humour. We're also both board members of Dark Continents Publishing. And that's about the extent of our commonalities. So rather than work with a cohesive theme, we've gone in the opposite direction by compiling a collection that showcases the diversity of style and theme to be found in Antipodean horror.
Tell us more about Dark Continents Publishing (DCP). I've had the pleasure of reviewing a number of the full-length horror/dark fantasy titles, all of which blew me away as a fresh approach to non-mainstream writing with a serious literary edge to the genre. DCP allows its authors to retain a very authentic voice and a high quality of writing in general, which has been refreshing. What makes DCP special, especially as a "gatekeeper" in current times when it's sometimes difficult to find good-quality fiction among the slew of releases?
First of all – thank you very much! Like most small press, we're not as driven by financial imperatives as the major publishing houses, so we can afford to take risks and choose novels on the basis of quality rather than looking solely at their likelihood of mainstream commercial success. We have global distribution through our printer Lightning Source and their distribution chain, so we're not restricted to tailoring our publications to a limited geographical appeal. We're small, we're quick, we're flexible and we're adaptable. But the main reason DCP is special is that we're all writers ourselves. We understand the creative process.And we know the difference between sanding down a novel to generic blandness and polishing it until it gleams.
LinksBuy Ghosts Can Bleed here and April Fool here. Follow Tracie's blog here.

Link round-up, Saturday, January 28

This week was rather challenging, as it saw my return to the day job, which just further underscores that at some point I need to break out of that horror novel that is working for a newspaper publisher. It's not always easy following one's dreams and I often wonder what "regular" folks do for fun 'cos there's rarely a moment when I'm not behind a computer.
And yes, I get tired. Very, very tired. I don't see myself laying out advertorial and subbing advertising-related copy for the rest of my life. My "night job" as I call my work for Lyrical, as well as my writing, is really what I want to do, but yeah... If I like my little luxuries like a roof over my head and food in my belly, I have to make sacrifices.
A big thank you to my dear husband, Thomas, who helped me with my promo photos last Sunday. He's a very talented visual artist and film director, and if dark arts are your thing, do stop by his deviantArt page.
But enough of the banter. I've had a number of ace appearances this past week:
I celebrated release day for What Sweet Music They Make on Monday. Things were kept very low-key with a bunch of my friends meeting up at Roxy's on Dunkley Square. Yes, I made a speech. A very quick one... Then had chocolate brownies. Many thanks to everyone who attended.
After that, it was a brief stop by Tombstone Tails to chat with Psynde about What Sweet Music They Make. Psynde delivers some great content on her blog and is definitely one I enjoy following.
For those of you who love the idea of immortals in fiction and film, I discuss functionally immortal characters on Autumn Christian's blog. This was a fun post to write and I've had some great feedback from it.
Then the last big 'un for this week was my debut appearance on The Word Fiend's blog. She interviews me and we discuss my latest release, plus there was a giveaway.
And if you missed it, I wrote my first piece of flash fiction in ages. Jamie fans of my Khepera books will be happy to see our friend up to his usual antics.
I'm also rather excited (and nervous) about a call for submissions I heard about yesterday because I have a concept and I'd like to give it a try. I did the Angry Robot open door call for subs last year. I got one really good novel out of the effort which I eventually subbed and had contracted to Dark Continents Publishing. This year I'm trying my hand at YA secondary world fantasy. Bearing in mind it's secondary world fantasy that was one of my biggest influences when I was growing up... It's odd that I haven't pushed hard to get one published, as I do have one languishing on my hard drive.
Speaking of novels languishing on hard drives, I had Camdeboo Nights contracted to Lyrical Press. It is a YA urban fantasy novel I wrote about two or so years ago that stalled mainly because it sat for months with a literary agent then later for months with another publisher that had requested a full submission. I'm yet to confirm release dates but in the meanwhile I'm just happy the tale will now see the light of day.

Friday Flash: The Fool

As a rule, I don't generally do tarot readings for myself but I'm always willing to make an exception after a glass or three of wine. It's a Friday night. The wind outside shakes the trees and rattles the windows in their frames. I should be out. I've gone as far as opening my cupboard to stare at my black threads, but not one garment has caught my fancy.

Why go out and get pissed in the company of people who annoy the living shit out of me when I can get blind drunk at home without all the predictable aggravation? Of course this sudden reticence on my part is out of character, but for fuck's sake, I'm allowed to indulge in the occasional fit of pique.

The others will still be there next week. They're always there at The Event Horizon, their fat-rolls stuffed into too-tight corsets or PVC pants as they blink drunkenly into the narcotic strobe light when the DJ spins Marilyn Manson, VNV Nation or Rob Zombie.

Tonight is different. This sense of the sacred aches in my bones like nicotine withdrawal. Or perhaps not the sense of the sacred, but rather the realization of the futility of routine, of breathing, of waking each day and going through the motions, a mechanical animal that sweats, eats, shits and pisses its way through its miserable existence.

My chest is tight and my breath wheezes past my lips. I reach for my packet of smokes but my fingers twitch away. The ember of the last cigarette still smolders in the heavy glass ashtray to my left. Instead my fingers tap a complex rhythm on the dark wood of the table top. They have a life of their own tonight, the most animated parts of my body, which is frozen, hunched over the deck of cards resting on a square of midnight velvet.

The red wine has gone bitter on my tongue, my throat thick from smoking too much. Nevertheless, I gulp more Pinot Noir and grimace at the taste. I'm almost ready for that second bottle and the wine hasn't touched sides. The world is still in too-sharp focus while the liquid churns in my belly.

The cards are cool to the touch and I shuffle them thoroughly while I concentrate on my breathing, on clearing my mind of all the dross that's been nagging me this past week and, especially expunging the clutching nightmares that have shaken me from sleep almost every night.

Slap, slap, slap.

Three cards in a row lie face down on the fabric. I clear my throat, the sound resonant in the echoing domain of my lounge. I flip the one in the center over to reveal The Fool, resplendent in his green jacket with a tiger gnawing at his leg. It's too early to tell exactly how he's dignified. I hate the way he grins at me, like he beholds some secret of the universe; knowing I'm still going to discover it.

The next card, on the left, reveals the Nine of Swords. Cruelty. Blood drips from the blades. I've never liked this card. I try figure out how The Fool relates to Cruelty and growing unease stabs at me. Perhaps I'm rushing off into a direction I don't want to take. I might face the cruelty of those around me. I'm taking a definite plunge. It could be inspired. It could be folly. But there are people sharpening their knives, slanderous tongues and wicked thoughts twisted against me.

Yet I don't know. It's always easier to read the cards for someone else, where I can cut loose and babble incoherently, and take cues from my client. Then I can play with words in such a way that makes it appear that the cards impart wisdom, advice for the future, when all I'm doing is giving them the meaning someone else wants to hear.

My fingers tremble when I turn over the last card. The Tower. Destruction of all illusions, of the entire world burned up by the wrath of Shiva's eye, of the earth opening to belch forth flame to devour saint and sinner alike.

With a growl I sweep the cards together then shuffle them. They hiss against each other for what feels like forever but this time, once I clasp a neat deck, I fan the cards out across the velvet.


Eyes closed, I trail a finger across them, from left to right and back again until one seems like a better option than the others.

I flip the card over and my pulse stutters. The Tower's dirty orange-and-black tones scream at me. A hiss escapes my lips as I repeat the process. Shuffle, cut the deck this time, shuffle some more. Make three piles of cards which I randomly stack together. Shuffle. Pick another card. Look at it.

The Tower. A strangled sound wrenches itself from me. This would be funny if it weren't for the fact that The Tower's showed up in five of the readings I've done for paying clients this past week.

The shatter of breaking glass from the kitchen has me lurch to my feet accompanied by a tortured rasp from my chair's legs. The black-painted walls close in on me and I catch a glimpse of my pallid features in the gilt-framed mirror hanging over the fireplace. My mouth opens and shuts without sound for a heartbeat or two before my legs obey my need to investigate the nature of the disaster that awaits.

Wine pools among shards on the slate of my kitchen floor. Pyewacket washes her white mittens on the counter, her eyes cold emeralds as she briefly pauses in her ablutions so she can cast a glance in my direction.

What Sweet Music They Make release day!

With the glut of vampires, angels, wolf shifters, demons and ghosts doing the rounds in paranormal and urban fantasy offerings at present, as an author I've often asked myself, "What can I do to make sure my writing is different and fresh?" Love triangles, sparkly vampires and soul mates... Why do I even consider looking into supernatural beings?
My overwhelming answer is "Because I want to." Most of the stories I enjoy reading feature these creatures, and when I write, I put out the kinds of stories I would like to read, with my own spin on the usual themes.
And at the end of the day, it's all about that: personal preference. Certain authors have unique styles/voices that appeal to readers. This doesn't necessarily mean that one author is better than another. You'll always have those who prefer JR Ward to Anne Rice, or Stephanie Meyer to Charlaine Harris.
What Sweet Music They Make was written as an indulgence. I enjoy the vampire mythos very much, but like to explore the lives of characters who might not necessarily be the power mongers or Alphas in supernatural terms. In many cases they are ordinary folks, sometimes with special talents, who are at the mercy of those who are in leadership positions. I ask myself this: How do they come into their own? What are the problems they face and how do they overcome them?
Central to What Sweet Music They Make is also my love of music. Both protagonists are musicians who have very different approaches to their skills. Severin was a young adult at the height of early 1980s pop. Think David Bowie, Peter Murphy and Siouxsie Sioux, and you won't be far off when you consider Severin, my vampire. He takes to the stage armed only with his 12-string acoustic guitar and a powerful, mesmerising voice. Mortal Tersia is his counterpoint, a gifted violinist who plays fiddle in an Irish band. I've always marvelled at how even a small Irish group can create magic in a gathering.
Another element of the tale is the fact that the two main characters are pawns in the political schemes of older, powerful vampires. Both face difficult decisions, as well as sacrifices they have to make. Also, of interest to my readers, is the story's setting, which is in Cape Town, South Africa. It might sound like an exotic destination to many, but in truth there's a first-world city to explore.
Without further ado, I invite you to give What Sweet Music They Make a try. It's available in a variety of non-DRM electronic formats directly from Lyrical Press. It offers readers a little bit of romance, a healthy dose of mystery and magic. Go check it out here, and read an excerpt while you're at it.
And if you're not following me on Twitter @nerinedorman yet, shame on you.

Link round-up, January 20

This has officially been my last week of playing full-time author and editor. As of next week I return to my day job and I hope I do so without becoming completely homicidal. They're renovating our building, and it's going to be... Interesting.
News from my side is that I finally got off my arse and submitted Camdeboo Nights to a small press with a call for YA subs. The MS has been gathering dust on my HD for almost two years now. The only reason why I didn't sub it to a small press before that was because it's only a recent development that certain small electronic-first presses are taking on the genre. The opening chapter of Camdeboo Nights was initially a short story--one of my very first sales before I sold my first novel.
Other news is that I was invited to write a Titanic-themed horror short story for an anthology that's releasing soon. Initially I was like, "Erm, I don't really write short fiction," but then I slept on it, and my short story, And the Band Played On, came into being. Once I had my hook, the piece was immensely fun to write, and I hope to bring some good news soon.
A while ago, a by-invite-only publisher of quality m/m fiction invited me to submit to them. I was flattered, but also didn't have a story, and I'm a firm believer in only writing when a story grabs me by the short and curlies. Well, I got my idea just before I went on leave last year. This week I finished writing and revising The Jackal's Shadow, a dystopian novella of about 20 000 words. And I've submitted it, hoping for the best.
All in all, it's been a productive week, and I feel I can return to the salt mines with a clear conscience. Without further ado, here are some of my online appearances for the past seven days:
Last Friday I made my debut at April Steenburgh's blog. Many thanks to April for having me over. She does a sterling job promoting authors and it was an honour to have this opportunity.
Then author Suzanne Robb had me over at her blog for a little Q&A. Some delightful questions there. Thank you, Suzanne.
Then, for those of you who are curious about my upcoming Dark Continents Publishing release, Inkarna, I stopped over at Tracie McBride's blog to discuss some of the influences. This was quite a difficult post to write, and I've laid my soul bare there.
Lastly, Blood and Fire continues to hit the mark with readers. Carrie and me had this stunning review for the novel, that left me grinning from ear to ear. Well, yeah... I write gothic like Mervyn Peake. I ain't complainin'.

A few moments with Suzanne Robb

Today I have the pleasure of having author Suzanne Robb on my blog. Welcome, Suzanne, and tell us a little about your current Dark Continents release. Where did it originate? Are there any underlying themes you explore that are personal to you? What was its writing process like for you?
The collection for Dark Continents is really varied. It is a collection of three stories, one is about a werewolf, another a dysfunctional family fending off the impending apocalypse, and the third about genetic mutation. The stories all came from pretty random places, the spots of my brain with cobwebs that like to change things up a bit.
There was no real personal theme for me other than humor in two of them, even though they are horror stories, they are also funny and my goal as a writer is to make people laugh at times.
The writing process for me is ever changing. I used to write like a mad woman, but there was no way to keep up that pace. Now I wait until an idea has fully formed and then I run at it full speed. I might go a few days with no writing and then write 5 stories in a week.
What are some of the writing resources you've found most useful in your time as author? What is the one truly good piece of advice you'd give to a newbie writer?
Editors, the best thing a writer can do is make friends with an editor and learn. That is also the same advice I would give to any writer, new ones especially. An editor's advice is invaluable, do not mouth off to them, or say you like your way better, or any other variation of that. An editor has a job that kicks in AFTER the writer has finished.
What are some of your interests, outside of the written word? Care to tell us why they blow your hair back?
I like LEGO's, puzzles, crosswords, some video games, and playing with my dog. I would not say they blow my hair back, as an adventurer I am not, but they relax me and at the same time let my mind wander. Playing fetch with the dog is when I come up with some of the best ideas.
Do you think the written word has the power to change people's perceptions of the world? What is the single-most influential work of fiction you've read, and why?
The written word has the power to do almost anything, changing perceptions of the world one of them. They can make people sad, angry, and a whole gamut of emotions if strung together in the right order.
The work I read that had the most impact on me was The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe. The first story to take me somewhere else and teach me about nobility and sacrifice, and had an emotional impact on me, most likely why it stuck with me for so long.
How do you feel about electronic publishing? Do you read ebooks? Do you prefer printed books?
I have mixed feelings about electronic publishing. Seems like anyone can put a book out, which is their right. But what is happening is the lack of editing and proper formatting is giving e-books a bad name, and thus many readers think e-books are all cut from the same cloth so to speak.
I do read e-books, but it is more of a money-saving matter. I have so many friends who write that if I were to buy all their books I would need another job and about seven more bookcases.I prefer printed in the end, something about them, not sure if it is the feel or smell.
Links:Blog - http://suzannerobb.blogspot.com/Twitter - @srobb76Facebook author page - https://www.facebook.com/pages/Suzanne-Robb-Writer/153456314746693

Link round-up, January 13

I've decided to try get my rear into gear and pick up my Friday linkages, just to consolidate some of the stuff that's been happening, because things have been... busy. I must admit I had a bit of a dubious start to 2012, and am still recovering from a stint in hospital. It would appear that all the meds I was on during the last quarter of 2011 had an adverse effect on my liver, and I was hospitalised with a rather nasty case of hepatitis (not the infectious kind, mind you, thank Dog). Needless to say, I've been booked off and have been spending most of my time at home and concentrating on getting better. The best part is that I've been indulge in my favourite occupations of writing, reading and editing.
So, without further ado, I'd like to share some of my good news from this past week:
Blood and Fire , the paranormal thriller co-written with Carrie Clevenger, had a stunning review at Eva's Sanctuary. Do stop by and leave a comment.
Then, for those of you who live in Cape Town, I'll be having a small celebration at Roxy's Cafe on Dunkley Square on January 23, to celebrate release day for What Sweet Music They Make , my latest Lyrical Press title. I promise I won't do anything embarrassing, like read an excerpt, but I'll probably just make a short speech to thank everyone who helped me during the process.
For those of you who're interested in the process that goes into creating cover art, I guest-posted over at Carrie's blog about the how-tos that go into putting together your front cover artwork. For me this is just common sense due to my background in the media industry, but I tried to sum up the most important bits. You'll also get to see some of the preliminary sketches that went into the artwork for Blood and Fire.
And, lastly, I had my debut appearance on the Dark Continents Publishing blog, telling about the process of collaborating with another author.
Sjoe! I've been a busy bee! Thank to everyone who's RTed and shared links. It's much appreciated.