Thea Atkinson's Blog, page 15

One Insular Tahiti is on SALE

For a very limited time, you can grab it at 99cents.

Come on. go get it.

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0042RUKSE/r...

Indie writers CAN have their publishing dreams come true! #WW

Well, not me, but some. I have met some great people through publishing to ebook form and when I met the powerhouse team of Saffina and Mark, I was bowled over by their energy…and impressed by their sales. Then I read the book.

Wow. I was stunned.

What better way to celebrate Writer Wednesday than to celebrate with great news from a great writing team.

Oh Heck. They better tell ya.

 

Hello!

I am THRILLED to be guest posting on Thea's fantastic blog and even more thrilled to be sharing really good news with you all! It's about time us indies had some luck!

Anyway, I won't bore you with the whole saga, if you want the lo' down and dirty details, check the full scoop out here.

In brief – we got a deal!

Now, as you may or may not know, we pride ourselves on being the UK's biggest selling indie writing team (others may argue, but up until now, we were THE only TRUE indies to have reached number two in the UK paid Kindle chart and have sold over 100,000 copies of ONE title) so you may be a little surprised to learn that we have now got a boot firmly entrenched in the traditional camp, but here's the thing: we haven't sold out!

As you will see if you read the whole official release over on my blog, we have taken a deal that suits us, on our terms, allowing us to continue with our plans for 2012 and beyond, in our own timescale.

We were increasingly aware of the European market and the gaps to exploit, but having previously enquired about the cost of translation (and then gawping at the total cost as we punched the numbers into the calculator and it came back with almost 9k!) we had written it off for the time being. So, you can imagine what a 'no brainer' it was when our new publisher (I just can't seem to get tired of saying that) offered us a deal where they paid to translate 'Sugar & Spice' and paid us an advance and are going to handle all the marketing!

Seriously, ask Mark (my co-writer) what I did when I got the email. I mistakenly thought THEY had asked US for the amount of the advance, not the other way around! I thought at the time it was a bit cheeky until I realised that the figure in Euro's with the naughts after it was what they we paying US!

Anyway, 'Paraphillia' (newly titled specifically for the French market) will be released in June 2012. Yes, you heard it here first! It IS actually possible to have an indie ebook out in the digisphere AND have a print version done in under a year!

So, we are very pleased to say the least. We are very excited about working with these forward-thinking publishers and we are even talking to them about other possibilities.

So indies, take heart.

The future of publishing is a'changing and there is no reason why we can't start having grownup conversations with the big guys, from a level playing field and even getting deals that suit us!

2012 is going to be a very exciting year and we wish you all the best for it!

-30-

Saffi & Mark (Saffina Desforges)

http://www.saffinadesforges.com

http://www.sapphicscribe.wordpress.com

http://www.saffinadesforges.wordpress.com

http://www.saffinadesforgesroseredseries.wordpress.com

http://www.markwilliamsinternationaldigitalpublishing.com

http://www.indiebooksunited.com

 

Follow me on twitter: @safficscribe

Find me on facebook: saffina.desforges

Books are available on Amazon, Waterstones, Tesco, Kobo, iTunes, Diesel, Scrollmotion & Barnes & Noble

http://www.amazon.com/Sugar-amp-Spice-controversial-ebook/dp/B004AYDK22

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Sugar-amp-Spice-controversial-ebook/dp/B004AYDK22

Saffina Desforges

saffinadesforges1@gmail.com

 

 

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Filed under: guest blogging

Click through the Goodreads Bloghop: freebies and fun galore

It was supposed to start yesterday, but well, I imbibed a bit too much Christmas cheer and forgot.

So: I'm trying to save face here and offer up the next in the link, hopefully not too late.

Welcome to the Goodreads Christmas Bloghop

Our first Christmas Bloghop runs till 7pm on New Year's Eve.

(note: I quote and paraphrase this information from Karen Lowe:

Fourteen Goodreads authors are taking part and there are all sorts of goodies and give-aways, and prizes to be won. The full list of blogs taking part is posted on the Goodreads forum, just in case you get lost in transit. Visit the Goodreads UK Kindle forum here

Go grab a free short story, Whitecaps from Smashwords if you like in any format for your ereader.

Thanks for visiting

Meantime, you might enjoy a few of my favorite posts for the year:

Gathering Secrets like Dust Bunnies

Search for your soul Among Shards of Glass

The Secret Behind the Story

 

On to your next blog, please visit Anne Mhairi and see what she is doing.

 

 

Filed under: Uncategorized

Merry Christmas: Grab a free ebook gift from Thea Atkinson

And so this is Christmas

And there's nothing better than giving.

Since this is Christmas and you have far better things to do than sit at a computer and read a blog, I'll make this one short:

I've set Rattling Bones to free on Amazon for December 24 and 25. If you know of someone who is receiving or has received a Kindle for Christmas, and if that reader enjoys women's fiction with a slightly dark edge, then this collection of short stories might be a welcome addition to their new library.

Thank you to everyone who took the time to subscribe to and read my blog. I value each comment made and each visit. I didn't quite make it to 100 but I came very close. Just because I didn't make it by Christmas, doesn't mean I won't give away a book package when I finally do receive 100 subscribers.

Happy holidays to everyone.

UK link:
DE link:
ES link:
IT link

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Filed under: Uncategorized

The truth about the secret inspiration of a skeptic

Gordon Bonnet Guests at GonzoInk:

Wednesdays is for Writers and at times, GonzoInk celebrates it with an exercise, an essay on writing, or a guest post by a writer. Today we have the latter two all wrapped up in one nice post by Gordon Bonnet. (@talesofwhoa) on twitter. Please do follow him. he's incredibly supportive. I really enjoy his blog posts especially those he writes with skepticism in mind. Plus, he has a wicked sense of humor.

Here's Gordon:

Grab it at Amazon

The following is really a question without an answer, but an intriguing question nonetheless.

I belong to a fiction-writing group that meets weekly on Tuesday evenings.  The range of different styles, plots, and approaches to writing in this group is staggering.  We have (just to mention three examples) a woman writing stories of Mennonite family in Oklahoma during World War II, and the cost (both personal and public) of being a pacifist in a time of war; a tale, humorous and heart-wrenching by turns, of a girl who is foisted off upon her aunt's extended family, and has to adjust to living in a rural village after spending her whole life in the city; and the story of an 18-year-old farm boy who has been drafted to fight in the French and Indian War.

We have had extended conversations in this group about where inspiration comes from.  To be sure, each of these (and my own writing as well) reflects our lives' experiences; the settings, and often the characters, are those we know, even if vaguely fictionalized.  But where, really, does that spark come from that sets us off (or that sets an artist or a composer off) on the path to creating something?  I can say from my own experience that I seldom have any real clue where my own ideas come from.  I tend to write fiction with a supernatural twist (an amusing pastime for a hard-headed rationalist, perhaps, but I have to indulge the mystical side of my personality somehow, don't I?).  And with few exceptions, I can't really point to anything that was the source of the basic ideas for the pieces I've written.

The word "inspiration" comes from the Latin words "in-" (which, indeed, means the same thing as in English) and the verb "spirare" meaning "to breathe."  So "inspiration" literally means "an inward breath."  You can still find the word used in its original, literal context in the medical use of "inspire" (meaning "to breathe in"), but the figurative sense is more common.  An inspiration is something that breathes life into a work; and there's this sense in the term, isn't there, that it comes from outside us — that it's something we are the recipients of, not the creators of.

I know that I have frequently had the experience of feeling like some character I was writing about has leapt off the page, and has taken the plot into his or her own hands.  One particularly striking example occurred in my novel Convection, about ten people trapped in an apartment complex during a hurricane.  I had initially intended the character of Jennie, a 19 year old convenience store clerk, to be simply the sullen and bitchy counterpoint to the nine other people in the building; just a foil against which the others' efforts to remain steadfast, to help each other cope, would stand out in higher relief.  But Jennie wasn't content to be a backdrop, and an obnoxious one at that, and the only way I can state it (because this is how it felt to me) is that she took over and wrote herself a bigger part.  Her bitchiness became a defense mechanism for her own insecurity, instead of a raison d'etre of her character; and she ended up being the quick one, the only person who was able to put the pieces of the puzzle together and figure out why one by one, the survivors of the storm were being killed.  The throw-away character became second only to the point-of-view character in importance to the plot, and when (in the second to last chapter) Jennie gets killed by one of the three remaining people who have survived to that point, the members of my writers' group were unanimous in their dismay.

"She was my favorite character," one of them said.  "I know why you killed her, but I hate you for it."

All of this is just by way of describing how out of control of the writing process itself I often feel.  Now, I'm as certain as I can be that this is just an illusion; I do not believe that there is some kind of Jungian Collective Unconscious from which I am drawing inspiration.  But if this belief (or lack thereof) is correct, then where do these ideas come from?  I suppose that the conventional answer is "the subconscious," but this to me doesn't seem to do anything more than to put a name on something we have no explanation for.

So, in the end, I have no explanation for the "otherness" I feel when I am struck with an idea for a story, or the odd feeling that a character has taken control of my hands and is making me write him or her into the story in a different way than I intended.  I am completely convinced that there is a perfectly rational explanation for both of these phenomena, but I'm damned if I can figure out what it is.

-30-

If you're a writer and need some networking love, please do visit the squirrelarmy page.

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Filed under: guest blogging, writerwednesday exercises

What are your Christmas traditions?

Image via Wikipedia

I still remember my first Christmas present from my mother-in-law, a bulky stainless steel roasting pan one and a half a feet all the way around and eight inches high. It looked like a huge square box without a cover.

"You said you wanted to try making a rappie pie," she said, looking at me through her glasses with obvious worry that she'd given me an unsuitable present.

My husband had requested the meal repeatedly, but as a (mostly) Anglophone, I'd never made one. And his mom made the best.

I'm a native Nova Scotian, and because I live in an area heavily populated with Acadian French, rappie pie, or rapure, is a common delicacy.

The Acadians have a tradition going to midnight mass on Chrismas eve and following it up with fresh from the oven rapure ( a dang heavy dish at 1 am if you ask me, but they do stay up later and yarn/yak and have a few drinks) Then the kids open their presents and go to bed with full bellies knowing they can sleep in on Christmas morning.

It's a wonderful tradition, one that is dying in some sense because many French have married English and have become anglified into the English traditions. I've Anglified my French husband, andI thought I should at least be able to make him a rapure when he craved it.

Like most delicacies, it doesn't always look appetizing to folks who have come from away. Like my Scottish relatives who visited a few summers ago.

"What's rabid pie," is about as close in dialogue as I can come to their response when asked if they'd like to try some. We set about trying to describe the dish and failed miserably.

"It's made mostly of grated potato and meat," we explained, leaving out critical details.

An old-fashioned rapure is prepared by first grating raw potatoes and then removing the liquid. My mother-in-law once piled the mash into a pillowcase and used the spin cycle of her washing machine to pull out the moisture. I don't even want to envision how she managed before that.

The moisture is then replaced with a meat stock boiled with a hefty dose of salt and onions.  The most common meat is chicken (although some add hare, beef, clams, or pork: truth is: any meat will do.) My mother-in-law assures me that before the days of packaged chicken, they spent hours harvesting poultry, then scalding the newly-deceased bird to enable easier plucking of its feathers. I couldn't help wondering how the dish ever became a favorite; so much work went into the preparation process that I could imagine the cooks waving off orders for a Sunday afternoon meal.

Then the potatoes and meat and seasoning are baked for three hours. The result? A shiny, glutinous dish, that if you've done the job right, sports a thick crust on the top tasting suspiciously of browned potato chips. It deftly avoids apt description and it just as stubbornly refuses to look appetizing in photos. In fact, its mere appearance has turned away many would-be eaters. But the aroma: Ah. You can't beat it.

Rappie pie is a regional pleasure. Even the closest city 300 kilometers away, has no concept of its existence.

Family who have moved away ask relatives to bring them the potato, now nicely packaged by the local company who sells pies for takeout, and those family members have to deal with customs at the airport. Imagine bringing a block of white mushy substance onto a plane these days.

My first pie could have been laid piece by piece into a fortress. My second had no taste. My most recent? Ambrosia. My most recent attempt leaves its pan to sit empty, soaking in suds as a testament to my success.

In fact, I've gotten good enough at the dish now, that I can invite friends over.

But I still can't outcook my mother-in-law's pie. Some things are just best left to Mom.

-30-

What Christmas food traditions do you have? I'd love to hear about it.

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Filed under: Thea bits

What about blurbs? Can you write one?

Please Click to buy One Insular Tahiti from Amazon

I write novels. You know that, right? i write nonfic articles for magazines, and I write essays, and short stories, and sometimes (as in my blogstreak last April) I write flash fiction.

But I've never been great at summaries. One would think if I could write in different forms I should be able to write a stoopid blub. But I can't and all my book blurbs are just terrible because I can't. I really think they are holding back some readers from testing out the books. The blubs just aren't intriguing enough.

(Note: The Green Water blog has an awesome post on writing blurbs. )

So I recently hired the Blurb doctor to work me through my blurb for One Insular Tahiti. I sent her a synopsis so she could get a feel for the story and then answered a few questions. She sent me back a first draft and we worked it out together.

I feel pretty good about the experience and the result. I still think it's not bang on, but it's closer.

Here's the before and after.  You decide and if you're inclined, vote in the poll or leave a comment. If you think you can add something better, please feel free to suggest it. I make no bones about my blurb writing expertise. I just need to get it right.

Which leads me to think that maybe I just might offer a blurb writing contest in the new year for one of my novels…not sure what the prize would be, but I'm thinking a $25 Amazon coupon could go a long way.

Before

After

Luke's death has come the way he always feared it would: in the claustrophobic, underground heat of a Cape Breton coal mine.  He had suspected it would end this way, had embraced it even, so while his body is buried, his soul settles into a watery existence of endless waiting.Soon, something changes in his personal purgatory; all is not quiet the way it was when he first realized he was dead.  Now a wind howls and storm seas bring waves of half remembered events from his past life that are so terrible he will do anything to avoid reliving them: images of war and abuse and of a favored brother spoiled by disease.

He needs to find a way out.

This is when he notices Astrid, a newborn fighting for her life. She isn't supposed to survive her birth, but if he can just will her to be his mother, he can save her and escape the anguish of this terrible supposed insular Tahiti.

Too late, Luke realizes that the connection that binds him to Astrid is the same inevitable battle of memories he left his purgatory to forget. Now he must endure the replay of horrific images that will ultimately change his soul and Astrid's forever.

One Insular Tahiti is a nonlinear tale of one's souls search for redemption and the lengths the human spirit will go to find peace.
Luke MacIsaac is dead, and not restfully dead. His death has come the way he always feared it would: in the claustrophobic, underground heat of a Cape Breton coal mine. He had suspected it would end this way, had embraced it even, so while his body is buried, his soul settles into a watery existence of endless waiting.But in short order the placid waters of his afterlife turn to rolling seas of time and memory as his violent past plays out again for him. Images of war, childhood abuse, and the tortured life of a brother he loved and failed threaten to inundate him.

More than anything, he wants to escape.

In his confusion and pain, he senses a kindred spirit in Astrid, a newborn struggling to stay alive. Luke helps her in hopes she may one day be the one who brings him out of his purgatory and into a new incarnation.

He discovers too late that Astrid's soul is linked to his hellish past life. Now he must experience all the anguish they went through together, and watch helplessly as Astrid goes through sorrows of her own, before the two of them can finally meet in this world and find peace together.



View This Poll
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Filed under: Uncategorized

You want a #FREE Kindle book? I've got em; come get em.

Today, I decide to experiment with FREE on Amazon. I enrolled my Short story collection Rattling Bones in the Amazon Prime program where folks can borrow the book for their Kindle.

As part of the package, I can set the book to free, and so thus, I have decided to do so! If you have a Kindle, please do grab a copy. If you're not sure, here's some info:

Go get it! It's FREE

Product Description

Rattling Bones is a collection of short stories with a dark edge. Meant for the chicklit reader who likes her fiction a little dark in places, it has a distinct literary flavor. The ideal reader doesn't mind a death or two and she certainly doesn't mind a few 'bad words' or adult situations.

In short: it's for the reader who likes a little dark in her light read.

"God in the Machine" is a story in the collection, so if you grabbed that one for free while it was going, and you enjoyed it, chances are you'll like the whole collection.

And PLEASE SHARE this! I WANT you to have it. squirrels, get going. ATTACK!

If you're an author with a freebie today, please post the link in the comments so we can grab em up.

Filed under: Uncategorized

God in the Machine is FREE on Amazon

Just this morning I discovered 84 sales of God in the Machine: a little short story I put up on Amazon that they are offering now for FREE (thus the 84 sales)

I would love it if you could pass it on. It's free, I think, everywhere throughout Amazon (uk, us, it, es, fr, de) so please please tweet and share. It's a bit dark in places, but then, all my writing is. grin.

 

It's free baby!

http://www.amazon.com/God-Machine-sho...

It's got 5 stars on Smashwords at the moment.

Normal

0

I stand naked in my darkened living room, my sanctuary of the ordinary. Without the identity provided by attire, I feel vulnerable, heavy breasts tilting nipples to the floor, sagging stomach pulled in. My toes dip into the carpet, foraging for the weave of burlap and deeper to the soft core of underlay.

My tripod in the corner is loaded with camera, the camera loaded with film, and I, unconscionably nude, am loaded with tequila.

Strange, I think, as I thumb the remote release, how light is so often the subject of composition. Painters, photographers, any visual artist is obsessed with it. It should be darkness, shadows, shade; they are really the fleeting stars. Without darkness could there be light? Without benefit of shadow, would illumination truly be beautiful?

I clench the plunger between sweating thumb and itching finger. In daylight the release is black. Black with a white button. Normally my tripod is white metal. Earlier, I'd Tremcladded every shining bit and left it to sit in the sun while I prepared my studio. It took three hours for the thing to dry.

Your mother is dying.

"Yeah, dying," I'd said to the doctor before walking away. "She's always on the verge, always waiting for the big one. She had her first heart attack when I was nine. Did you know that? Dad left Friday after supper to visit his mistress and Mom just gripped her chest and fell to the floor. I was terrified, you know."

Emma, Emma, watch your sisters for me. Emma, do you hear?

Could I hear? For years it's all I heard: in my dreams, in my mind, in between the ears that grew tumors when I was two. I still hear it.

My mother is dying.

She's always dying. My sisters and I, we're always careful. No stress. No bad news. For God's sake don't get her upset. The collapse when her baby brought home her first boyfriend, the hospital stint when my father had his first child by his mistress, anything could invoke the pain. We learned to avoid.

And now I'm about to take a picture of nothing.

I try to consider how long the shutter will have to stay open during the session. Indefinitely, I'm sure. It's trained to respond to light, to catch it, hold it, and use it to record things as they are in that moment. In the absence of suitable light, I must provide it artificially, or override the shutter's senses. I've set my camera to manual.

After painting my tripod, I taped black Bristol Board to the windows, and electrical taped every crack. I was dressed then, in my Sunday best. Still fresh-from-church looking, but I wasn't fresh from church. I'd stopped to see Mom on my way home. She'd been lying on the floor watching a rerun of the Waltons. Picture perfect family. Lots of kids. Father still home. Loving the mother. Mother…

Mother is dying.

Dying. Dying. Lying on the floor watching…

She shouldn't be lying on the floor. Her housecoat gapes open at the chest. I can see the Frankenstein tracks from throat to belly, left over marks from staples pinching flesh together. Her legs are splayed open. She looks victimized, and for a second, I think it is all staged.

I close my eyes in the obsidian, insidious darkness of my own living room. It's no blacker with them shut, but at least the vision disappears. I'm mercifully alone again, and I force myself to smell things: the aroma of fabric softener drifting from where I'd thrown my clothes on the sofa behind me, the stink of my own sweat threatening to force me to stumble to the bathroom and wash, the fragrance of mom's perfume still in my hair from when I'd rolled her to her back…

She lies there, eyes open, letting me pump her chest, pump her chest, pump her chest. The sound of an ambulance cutting through my counting… one one thousand… two one thousand… seeing the phone dangling from the table edge as my eyes fleet over the room scouring the air for the medical technicians.

I open my eyes. Everything is ready. The tripod steadies the camera. The camera waits for me to press the button. I'm posing ridiculously model-perfect poses for a snapshot that will show nothing. The aperture is even set to full open, the film at 1600.

What is the good of taking a picture of darkness, even if the model is in that blackness somewhere. And she is there. Will be there. If the shutter manages to close again, the machine will record the secret. A lumpy, imperfect 40-year-old will be there in that void. She'll be womb-naked, her total and embarrassing glory stamped into the underlay of film's black carpeting. So it will not be a picture of nothing. Not in the end.

And I will know that.

My mother is dying. She's always dying. She uses her death to manage the lives of those around her. Look after your sisters, Emma. Emma, do you hear? a panicked eleven-year-old thinking she's seeing a last breath again, thinking she'll be alone, have to become mom to a eight-year-old and a five-year-old. Should she tell Dad? Should she tell Dad? Should I tell Dad? And then a miracle and he comes into the house. He sees mother and falls on her crying. The tears revive her for now.  Hallelujah, cry the angels. Glory, glory and all is well.

And God said let there be light.

Oh, he knows what he's doing. From light darkness always runs scared. It peels off every filthy thing and leaves bared to vision all those imperfections. The better the light, the better the view. But sometimes things are better left unseen. I didn't go into the hospital room this time. I couldn't. The rooms are always too white, too reflective. A picture could be taken in one of those rooms without flash; the white walls would easily reflect the light onto any subject. Mom would be the subject, surely, the center of attention. The raison d'etre.

I walked away, instead, without going in and heard behind me the doctor's voice saying, "But she's dying. Don't you want to see her?"

"She's been dying for 30 years," I called back over my shoulder. My sisters weren't following me; they weren't even in her room, weren't there at all, although they'd been called. We've been here before. Through this before. We've seen it all.

I imagine the doctor shaking his head, but he can't possibly understand. He hasn't been there, in the dark, waiting for light. He hasn't bared himself to the black, and waited, praying the light would only scare it away, not reveal things that the darkness protected.

I didn't bother to wait for the specialist to question me. I simply walked past the hospital room without peeking in at her and pushed myself behind the wheel of my Echo. The nurses knew her by name, they gave her the same bed every time she came in. I didn't need to see her; I've seen it before.

I click the shutter release finally. A metallic click carries notification from the corner to my ear that the shutter is open. The camera waits to gather enough light to capture an image. It waits. It waits.

 My mother is dying, and the shutter will not close.

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What's Tunes got to do …got to do with It?

J is waiting for you on Amazon

Every now and then I post a link to twitter that takes clickers to "Gravity" by A Perfect Circle on Youtube, and I always write something to the effect that it was the song I listened to most while I was writing the climax of Anomaly. For a while, I would tweet and Facebook a variety of songs, often labelling the tweets as Anomaly writing soundtack song # Youtube link.

I stopped doing it a while ago because I just figured I was the only one remotely interested, but recently, I've been I've been seeing tweets about Jodi Picoult's novel Sing You Home, and from what I gather, it has a soundtrack in it (or listed in it).

I realized I wasn't the only one that connected life events (and plot events) to music after all.

That kind of excited me in a weird way. It made me start to think again about the processes involved in any artform and how they are connected. As visual artists use terms like composition and cliché all the time, so do writers. Musicians use words like rhythm and voice. So do writers. Photographers talk about story; so do writers.

Perhaps some day I'll write about how I think all of these things connect for me (I'm a major music fan and avid hobbyist music photographer) but for now, I'll settle for listing a few songs from the Anomaly soundtrack that moved me in some way and in the end become the composite anthem for poor J, who was really the most touching character to grace my writer's psyche. There's a soft cuddly place in my heart for J, and I imagine if you got to know the complex character, there'd be an equally comfortable spot in yours.

-30-

Gravity by A Perfect Circle

[image error]

Pet by A Perfect Circle

One more Addictionby Natalie Imbruglia

J is waiting for you on BN

Right in Two by A Perfect Circle
The Noose by A Perfect Circle
Talks to Angels by Black Crowes
Hurt by Johnny Cash
Bartender by Dave Matthews Band
Big Eyed Fish by Dave Matthews Band
Sober by Tool
Madman Across the Water by Elton John
Anna Molly by Incubus

If you liked this post, please do share. If you add the hashtag #squirrelarmy, I'll add you to my list of folks to look for and RT, share, and network with.

Filed under: Thea bits