Thea Atkinson's Blog, page 4

Theta Waves Thursdays Week 1

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Welcome to Theta Waves Thursdays

Where each Thursday, I post an act from my new and ongoing serial story: Theta Waves. It’s been a couple of months since Phoenix was released, so instead of starting there (anyone who enjoys a Thea read has already grabbed it up for free but if you didn’t, you can go over to Amazon and download it), I’m going to begin with Dragon: Episode 2.

 So settle back, prepare yourself for a typical tale that has all the darkness you’ve come to expect from a Thea read, but with a little added steam.

 Looking for more freebie goodies? I’m amassing some over at Gimmesome. Go get some!

Dragon: Episode 2: Act 1

Theda didn’t know who she’d been in the lifetime that she read for Ezekiel, but she knew who she was now, and that chick didn’t like the feeling of freefall, of being out of control, of suddenly caring. It had been 48 hours or more since she’d taken her last godspit smear, and since then, she’d been abducted from her grotto beneath the bridge, charged with religion mongering in a post apocalyptic god-hating world, and been forced to provide a vision for the man who stood in front of her to prove religion mongering was exactly what she’d been doing. This man–Ezekiel–was attractive in a gut-wrenching sort of way she had to admit that, but he was also the one completely responsible for the predicament she was now in. He had stolen her last smear and dragged her to this place somewhere in the western end of the city after killing her would-be executioners in the capital building. He’d bathed her with and without her clothes because she’d been too far gone into withdrawal to rid herself of the blood from the murder and accumulated filth that comes after a bunch of months without access to a shower. He’d been tender about it, even respectful as though he had some decent molecule somewhere in his body. Then he made her sleep on the floor next to his bed like a common dog.

Oh, yeah; needing a godspit fix was an understatement.

“I don’t know what the hell is going on,” she told him as she stood in a top floor bedroom in Bridget’s apartment. “But I want no part of it.”

She didn’t care if this lover, friend, or accomplice of his named Bridget was awake down below puttering in the kitchen, if breakfast with bacon and sausages and scrambled eggs was waiting for her down there, or if Ezekiel passed Theda over the entire cache of godspit that he kept in his pocket – because she knew he had one; he’d taken them all from her friend Ami when he’d abducted her from the survivor station – and one of the smears was even hers damn him. She was getting out of here. Getting the hell out of Dodge. Blowing this Popsicle stand and any other clichés from old Earth that she could think of.

“It’s too much, all too much.” She made a move for the bedroom door, thinking out there in the streets was about as safe as inside an apartment where her bounty hunter could watch her day in and day out, but she felt him hook her elbow with his meat hook hands, pulling her backwards.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he said.

“What are you going to do; taser me like you did Ami?” She choked on the name: Ami, the one who gave her free coffee and free godspit to get her through her nights. The man who kept trying to coax her into a decent life and a decent bed, hoping she would join him in helping the unfortunate to adjust to their new environment. The one who did truly seem a decent man in this world of ruin. The one Ezekiel had left lying incapacitated and vulnerable, damn him.

“I could taser you.” He conceded, twisting his booted ankle about so she could see the butt of the weapon sticking out. “If I have to.”

“He was a decent guy and you left him good as dead.”

“Ah,” he said. “Your young admirer. I left him on the bed like you asked me to before you fled the scene like a criminal.” He chuckled humourlessly, holding up his index finger to indicate he’d just thought of something. “Wait. That’s exactly what you were.”

“Still. He didn’t ask for that.”

His gaze fell to her mouth and lingered there, making her squirm. “I left him alive, at least, “he said.

“Until the beast’s men find him. That’s what you said when we left the capital; that he was good as dead.”

He jerked on her elbow, dragging her toward the bed.

“You can install all you want, pretending you care about that lovesick fool; you’re not leaving,” Ezekiel said to her, squeezing into her elbow just enough to make her wince.

“The hell I’m not.”

He shook his head. Charcoal colored hair fell into his eyes as he loosened his hold and tried to ease her back on to the bed. “Be smart, minou. They’ll find you. Just like I did.”

She resisted. She didn’t want to be calm, sit prissily on the bed. She wanted out.

She struggled to remember everything he’d told her back in the capital building, before she’d been forced to see him through a vision that even now made her tremble. It was a difficult task; the copious amounts of godspit she’d ingested over the last couple of days had begun to play with the timeline, but she was sure he’d told her he’d been watching her for months, trying to gain the evidence he needed to prove that she was religion mongering.

“They might find me, but they won’t know anything.” She resisted the urge to stick her tongue out at him. “You didn’t know anything for months.”

“You’ve got it all wrong, minou. I knew right away.”

“And you let me ply my trade for seven months? I doubt it.” All her struggles did no good; he somehow wrestled her onto the bed without effort.

“I didn’t just watch you for seven months.” His lips took on a regretful twist, and he seemed to have a hard time holding her eye. “I gathered information on you.”

She gave him a wary look. “Gathered information? Does that mean you delivered it?”

“Yes it does.”

“That doesn’t mean anything. They can’t prove anything because there’s nothing to prove. I’m not a religion mongerer. I don’t go about telling people that God cares. That they can save their souls. It’s all too late for that. We all know that.” She was on her feet again, waving her arms frantically by now, unable to contain her sense of impotence. Nothing was making sense. She knew that the beast wanted to rid the world of any spark of religious fervor, but really what was the point. The god had come and gone. There was nothing left in the world except debauchery. Everything else seemed a moot point.

“You don’t get it, do you? They don’t want proof.”

“Then what was all of that back in the capital building?” She poked him in the chest with her finger. “Tell me that. If they didn’t want proof then why did they force me to read for you?”

It had been a horrific reading, one she’d been forced to perform tied to a chair while afraid for her life. The vision was so familiar as she walked through it that she felt as though the life she’d led him through was her own. Just thinking about it made the panic rise again. Witch trials and torture and executions without proof. If not for the highly erotic part of the beginning of his vision, she would swear history was trying to repeat itself. The erotic part: well, that made her peer up at him surreptitiously. If he’d been the Cathrin woman in the vision, she’d been pretty damn promiscuous; it made her wonder if the soul he’d been still had a taste for ménage. Then her face burned at the thought and she had to hide it behind the back of her hand as she pretended to wipe fury from her expression. She caught sight of her finger and had a peculiar thought.

“Let me see your where you cut yourself,” she said, grabbing for his arm, intending to examine the point of the finger he’d cut when he’d slipped it, blood and all, into her mouth and against her tongue, bringing on the vision.

He put his hands behind his back and she wrestled him, twisting his wrist. “Let me see it,” she said. “I bet I can do it for you again. Maybe this time I’ll find an even better lifetime for you. One where you’re the zealot and you’re the one being hunted.”

She was behind him now, had the index finger grasped in both fists. It still looked swollen and sore and it occurred to her as she squeezed it that his vision had been exactly like that. She dropped his hand, ashamed.

“What am I some kind of pixie stix?” He growled, inspecting the fingertip.

She straightened up and faced him, chastened but unwilling to appear so. “You were plenty willing back at the capital building.”

“I was doing what I was told. What I was paid for.” He sighed, stepping an easy arm’s distance away.

“And what the hell were you paid for except to abduct an innocent young woman?”

He sighed, rolling his eyes as if he wanted to debate that point, but instead said, “A test.”

“And I failed it, I presume.”

“Quite the opposite. They wanted to know if you could truly see. They wanted to know if you were the girl responsible for the new zealots. But it didn’t matter what the result was. They were going to kill you anyway. Too many people believed in your little trick to let you go.”

For a moment, she thought of the hunger the woman in his vision had felt for the two men she shared, the reason she ended up with a pouch of gunpowder around her neck, and tied to a cross. She had to remind herself that Ezekiel had been that woman from the lifetime. She remembered the pain he’d endured at the hands of a trumped up which trial. But it was the other players in the vision that had her attention as she looked at him. She’d been one of those players, of that she was certain; the reality of it, that she had no idea which one, was the real reason for the panic. But she’d have to stop thinking about that. That way lay madness. Hell she wished she had a godspit smear. She studied her toes, wiggling them on the carpet.

“It’s not a trick,” she admitted sullenly after a long moment and peered up at him to see his reaction.

His eyes locked on hers and something in his posture softened. “I know,” he said.

“What I do has nothing to do with religion.” She took a step toward him, thinking for some strange reason that if she could convince him of the truth, that she could convince anybody and then this whole mess would be over. She could forget about that vision. She could pretend she never had it and move on.

“I just need to eat,” she said. “I told you. I told them. I’m just trying to survive. Surely they’ll understand that.”

He spread his arms. “Look around you. Religion destroyed the world long before the god came. It’s not about evil or good anymore. Those things have gone.”

“I know,” she mumbled. It was true. The notion of good and evil was an antiquated one that proved to only destroy the world and bring it near destruction for its entire existence. The Holocaust of the god’s return proved to be the closest Earth had ever come to extinction and here they still were. The beast wasn’t about to let it happen again.

“But you’re wrong,” she said. “You can’t just set the clock back. We are not Neanderthals. The beast can’t stop us from believing what we want. We have senscience.”

“Some senscience,” Ezekiel said. He reached into his jacket pocket and plucked out a handful of smears, showing them to her. She felt the saliva flood her mouth at sight of them and turned away before he could notice the hunger or guilt on her face.

“See?” he said. “We’re all just back to basics. So many of us.”

The way he said it, the tone in his voice made her look up at him sharply.

She could feel her eyelids slit together in suspicious study. How dare he presume to show empathy. “You have no idea.”

“You don’t know me.”

“I don’t want to know you,” she said. “I just want to get out of here. I don’t want to have anything to do with any of this.”

“You’re already involved, minou. They want you dead. That’s all there is to it.”

She snorted. “Me and a dozen other religion mongerers.” She said. “Let them go find one of them.”

“They will,” he said. “Don’t you worry. And they will find you, and they will make an example of you.”

She gave him a hard look. “I want my smear back. And I want some clothes.” She picked at the oversized T-shirt she wore to replace the clothes he’d cut from her in the tub. The memory of that experience burned on her cheeks as hotly as the steamy memory of Cathrin and her two gentlemen.

Exasperation chiseled itself onto his face, but he turned on his heel and left the room only to return moments later with a pile of material.

“You and Bridget are about the same size.” He threw jeans at her first, followed by a plaid shirt, some socks, and a sports bra. He held a thong by its string. She noticed it still had a store tag. “Not as pretty as yours, but I trust these will do?” He asked so sweetly she wanted to kick him in the shins.

The flaming of her cheeks went behind her ears as she thought of the ratty underwear he’d taken off of her the night before, but she grabbed at the thong just the same.

“Does Bridget know you rummage through her things?” She shoved one foot through a leg hole then the other, pulling the underwear up beneath the T-shirt as quickly as she could.

“Don’t worry about Bridget,” he grinned almost playfully, watching her. “I’ve had my hands in her drawers before. She’ll be okay with it.”

Theda glared at him. The way he watched her through those hooded eyelids with those thick charcoal eyelashes did things to her she didn’t want to admit. And thinking of that same gaze settling on the woman she remembered seeing the previous night did even worse things to her. She had to remind herself that he was a bounty Hunter, looking to earn a few coins for her arrest no matter how it had ended up.

“How about some privacy?” She tried to keep her voice even.

His glance fell to her bare thigh as he shrugged. “Awfully shy all of a sudden for a girl who knows I’ve seen the entire package,” he said, squinting at her. He paused at the door, hand on the knob before he turned back towards her. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

She wanted to tell him that stupidity wouldn’t have enabled her to survive on her own after the Holocaust, but he’d twisted the knob and left the room before she had the chance.

He was waiting outside the door when she exited. His hand rested on the banister at the top of the stairs. Fragrant smells of cooking came from below: bacon, ironically, and the smell of cinnamon. Despite herself, her mouth watered and her stomach growled at her. Maybe she didn’t have to be in that much of a hurry.

“A bite to eat,” she said, inhaling the wonderful aroma. “Then I’m off.”

“Suit yourself,” he said.

She pushed past him, already imagining French toast and bacon sitting on a white plate, fork tucked neatly beside it. Her foot was on the top tread when Bridget appeared below. In the light of day, not blurred over by eyes suffering the rackings of withdrawal, Theda could see how beautiful Bridget was. Hair as glossy black as liquid tar with a sapphire gaze. Theda imagined those narrow hips sporting the thong Ezekiel had dug out of Bridget’s dresser. A lover, Ezekiel had called her. Had his hands in her drawers plenty of times. Theda jammed her hands into the jeans pockets, feeling along her own hip bone. It stuck out in a way that made her chew her lip.

The woman looked up at them, arms crossed. “She’s on the Promo,” she said flatly.

On the Promo. The next thing after the electricity to get turned back on. The way for the beast to pipe through his new edicts. Broadcasted on high-definition screens that ran across the buildings they were mounted on. Not many left, true, those remnants of marketing campaigns in the old world, but one or two throughout the city in highly visible spots. That meant they’d already begun searching for her. That meant every bounty Hunter within reach of the signal would be on the prowl.

She gave Ezekiel a twisted half smile. “Let them look,” she said with a haughtiness she didn’t feel. “The only visual they could possibly have of me is from years ago.”

She imagined the most recent photo, taken before her father had decided to exorcise the prophetess out of his wife. That had been at least five years ago when Theda had braces like most teenagers. She’d been more plump then, the result of the coddling an only child was entitled to. Her hair dyed half a dozen colors, violet being the most prominent. There was no way they’d be able to match that sweet, self-entitled to face to the gaunt, haunted mask she knew she wore now.

“I could be standing right next to my photo and they’d never know,” she said and sauntered down two more steps only to halt at sound of his voice.

“Afraid not, minou.”

She turned. “What do you mean?”

“I mean they would have somehow got their hands on a recent photo.”

Comprehension dawned. “Somehow: meaning you took a picture of me.”

“Took it, delivered it. Identified you by your Mark.” He jammed his hands into his jeans pockets. “They know who you are and what you look like. They even know the street you trick out on.”

“So I’m screwed.”

“You were screwed. But now you are here. With me.” He seemed pleased with himself.

“Doubly screwed, then.” She looked down at the gorgeous woman at the bottom of the stairs, up at the man who had abducted her and then saved her life. Had his hands in Bridget’s drawers plenty of times, this lover of his. His hands, so often rough with Theda in these last two days, had been gentle in the tub, caring. She imagined those hands roaming Bridget’s body, gentle, loving, but urgent.

“I don’t think I’m hungry anymore,” she said and did her best to hold his gaze until he gave in and nodded.

“I understand,” he said. “It’s a lot to take in, but don’t think of it as being trapped here. Think of it as being safe.”

“What I think is that I’ll lie down.” She put her fingers to her temple for just the right effect. He seemed to buy it. They both did.

He galloped down the steps toward the aromas of bacon and cinnamon and she watched him go. They could have a good breakfast together, those two, smiling across the table at each other. They could even hold hands across the gingham tablecloth for all she cared.

She had much better things to occupy her mind.

to be continued next week….

Don’t want to wait till next week to see what happens? Find Dragon at the following ebook retailers

 Buy me from other retailers:

Amazon
Itunes
BN
Kobo
Sony
Smashwords

Subscribe to my newsletter Thea Reads for goodies, freebies, and news, but never spam. Never.

Looking for more freebie goodies? I’m amassing some over at Gimmesome. Go get some!

I’d love to have your input as I write, so feel free too comment on Twitter (#Thetawaves) You have the chance to impact the story line and how much raunchiness you can handle.

Filed under: Theta Waves Thursdays

You know you wanna get some. Freebies that is

Happy Weekend everyone!

I’ve been slowly amassing some freebies for y’all regular readers and for those first time visitors to my site. It’s getting fleshier over there at GimmeSome and I do hope you’ll take what interests you, spread the word to folks you think they’ll suit, and then come back to see what more I’ve put up.

It’s ever so tough to get Amazon to set things free, so if you want something that’s free everywhere else, just click to the book’s amazon page and click the “tell us about a lower price” link.

For now, go grab whatever format is ready for your ereaders.

And if you haven’t tried out Water Witch, you can get it at most ebook retailers:

Buy Water Witch at Amazon

BN

KOBO

ITUNES

Filed under: Thea bits

Cover Reveal FIERCE: Clarissa Wild

Title: Fierce
Author: Clarissa Wild
Publication Date: January 27th 2014
Genre: New Adult Romance

 
Fight for your dreams. Fight for your life. Fight for love.


Nerdy girl Autumn Blakewood is the prime example of a goodie two-shoes. She studies every night, is never late for class, and always follows the rules. She has never felt the need to step out of her comfort zone. That is, until she meets Hunter.

 Hunter Bane is a cocky, confident bad-boy, who’s nothing but trouble. He’s a dangerous distraction to everyone around him. Sexy and strong, Hunter enjoys the swooning effect he has on women. Especially those who aren’t used to attention, like Autumn.

 Autumn finds it hard not to give into Hunter’s advances, even though it all seems like a game to him. Trying to understand him is impossible, because he shrouds himself in mystery.
What she doesn’t know is that Hunter has more baggage than anyone should have to carry. When she discovers he’s in an illegal frat club to save the one person that matters to him, Autumn realizes this could mean the end of her undeniable connection to him. Even their lives are at risk.
But it’s too late to turn back now …

When he comes up the steps, his gaze is already set on that one empty spot beside me.

I’m squeezing my legs together, as he sits next to me. My instinct is to scoot

far away, but I can’t; there’s nowhere to go.

I feel watched, which isn’t strange, considering his gray eyes are practically trying

to penetrate my skin. Anger is seething inside him, I don’t have to look at him to know; I can feel it flow

out of him like a radiator that’s burning up.


God, I want to die.


He keeps staring at me, as if he has nothing better to do. My heartbeat is rising, and

I’m starting to feel really sweaty. I don’t know why he’s doing this, but it’s

freaking me out, and I don’t like it one bit.


“Don’t you have to pay attention?” I say, avoiding his eyes.


“To You? Yes.”


His words make my insides broil.


“The teacher has already started talking.” I point to the front, but Hunter doesn’t

even flinch. His eyes are still on me like a hawk zooming in on his prey.


“I don’t care.”


I swallow, gathering the courage to turn my head and look at him. The moment my eyes make

contact with his I’m drowning. Drowning in amazement. Drowning in fear.


Fear of the unknown.


“But your grades …” I stammer.


He snorts, and a smile curls the corners of his mouth while he shakes his head. “Yeah,

right.”


And all I can do is stare.


If looks could kill, I would be dead.


He looks so damn handsome when he smiles. It’s like everything around us fades and all I

ever want to see is that smile. It just makes me feel good.


But when the smile disappears, so does my mood.


The darkness falling over his face unsettles me.


In his eyes I see the hurt, the worries, the insomnia. Sleepless nights have worn down his

face, making him look saggy and dull. But I know there’s so much more inside

there.


Endless stories and an undiscovered world I’m intrigued by.


I want to know what’s in there. Inside him. Why he’s so angry and sad at the same time.


A sudden overwhelming feeling to grab him and hold him tight takes me aback.


He’s having so much trouble in his life right now, even though I have no idea what’s going

on. I can see it in his eyes that something is so wrong. And I want to help him

get through it.


But I don’t come any close. I don’t move one muscle.


I’m scared.

Scared of what he can do. Scared of his power, and his temper.


In my mind I can still see his bloodshot eyes and the hateful look on his face. He was in

that fight yesterday, I’m sure of it. The only question is who was the one

instigating it.


I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.


I can’t ask him. I just can’t get the words to come out. I’m really chicken shit.


“Something wrong?” he says.


I shake my head.


“Then why are you looking at me like that?”


Hunter inches closer. I instinctively draw back, but he scoots even farther to my

side. I’m scared to death he wants to do something to me, and I have no idea

what, which makes it even scarier.


A devious smile appears on his face, and it’s almost as if he’s enjoying this. Taunting

me seems like his way to pass time in class. I don’t like it one bit, but on

the other hand I’m excited as hell.


He raises his head, and his nostrils flare. I turn my head, my breath hitching in my

throat. I can’t look when he’s doing this, entering my private space uninvited.


It feels as though his nose is close to my hair, because there’s hot air flowing close to

my ear. And then he inhales.


Holy shit.


Is he smelling me?


I’m frozen in place from sheer panic, my heart beating like crazy.


No guy has ever come this close to me.


He lets out a huge breath afterward and chuckles softly. His breath lingers on my ear, and

a shudder runs through me.


“I like it,” he whispers.


Oh. My. Fucking. God.


My skin tingles where his hot breath brushed over me. My groin clenches, and my clit thumps.


Why? His whisper does this to me. Just a whisper.


I never felt like this before. I think just died inside.


Hunter muffles a laugh. It’s like he can smell my fear.


He takes in a sharp breath and moves back to his usual spot. As if what he did just now was

the most normal thing in the world.


I’m still shaken, my body stiff from the encounter. I feel completely naked, and I know

he’s watching me. The look in his eyes is like that of a boy who just did something totally against the

rules. And it’s so fucking sexy I can’t stand it.

Clarissa Wild is the erotic romance author of the Blissful Series,

The Billionaire’s Bet series, the Doing It Series and the Enflamed

Series. She is an avid reader and writer of sexy stories about hot men

and feisty women. Her other loves include her furry cat friend and

learning about different cultures. In her free time she enjoys watching

all sorts of movies, reading tons of books and cooking her favorite

meals.

Want to get an email when Clarissa’s next book is released?

Sign up here to receive a FREE short story: http://eepurl.com/FdY71





Website | Twitter | Facebook | Amazon 

Filed under: Thea bits

My Goodreads TBR shelf

Look at that graphic. See what it’s telling me?

Yeah. Exactly. 233 readers have shelved Water Witch onto their TO READ shelf. Huzzah! I’m so thrilled to see such a big number for my lil ditty.

That was my first reaction. The lonely writer reaction who wants acceptance. I enjoyed the feeling foe an entire 40 seconds, Then smack! The evil marketer within (who is as bad as the critique within, I tell ya) reared her nasty mustached face to my eager one.

Get them moved to the READ shelf, durnit.

(I hate evil marketer face, I really do. I’m going to name her some day. Some yucky name befitting her entire demeanour)

I don’t know how, I said back.

So evil marketer face told me to play in the pool, but I floundered lots. LOTS. Plus, I have a hard time typing…tendonitis. If I can’t voice it in, I won’t do it. My Dragon gets cranky when I use the Interweb thingie. Seems some weirdness gets it all hot and bothered, so I HAVE to type in Firefox.

Not good.

But evil marketer face demanded I be social. (Mom is laughing at that one, I can tell you. The mere notion of me being social is a hoot)

So I planned to spend more time on Goodreads instead of trolling down thorough Facebook pics of grumpy cats.

And I did.

And you know what?

I’m enjoying myself. Mind, I keep it quick (tendonitis) but I do spend some time there and I’m meeting folks. Lonely writer face is smiling. Evil marketer face thinks she has one up on me, but she doesn’t. That Water Witch TBR hasn’t shifted one bit.

And I’m OK widdit.

 

Buy Water Witch at Amazon

BN

KOBO

ITUNES

Filed under: Thea bits

Free for a limited time: Episode 1 of Theta Waves

Subscribe to my newsletter Thea Reads for goodies, freebies, and news, but never spam. Never.

Theta Waves Episode 1 Free on Amazon

With 3 episodes in the series complete, and this close to Christmas, I thought I’d offer readers a chance to grab the first book for free. But it’s  a limited offer, so download it now.

 I’d love to have your input as I write, so feel free too comment on Twitter (#Thetawaves) You have the chance to impact the story line and how much raunchiness you can handle.

 

But don’t wait. Check it out now.

Buy me from other retailers:

Itunes
BN
Kobo
Sony
Smashwords

Filed under: Thea bits

Steamier Thea read launched

 

Subscribe to my newsletter Thea Reads for goodies, freebies, and news, but never spam. Never.

Theta Waves Hits Ebook Retailers

That’s right; Theta Waves is on the move. If you enjoyed Witches of Etlantium but wished Heck, Thea write me something with a bit more steam, edgier situations, and keep your penchant for dark and damaged characters, then well, my dear reader, you are in luck. I’m almost embarrassed with the grittiness and raciness of this one.

Two novellas are live and ready for your ereaders. The third is still in first draft but this time, I’d love to have your input as I write, so feel free too comment on Twitter (#Thetawaves) You have the chance to impact the story line and how much raunchiness you can handle.

The plan so far is a series of novellas, with a sequence of three main episodes per storyline; that way you can keep up via your smartphone if you like. Each novella will be around 20K words: Perfect for mobile reading, but if you prefer your tales all in one shot, I can combine 3 episodes into 1 ebook.

But don’t wait. Check it out now.

 

Buy me from other retailers:

Itunes
BN
Kobo
Sony
Smashwords

 

Filed under: Thea bits

Guest post: Timesaver Tips for computer use by Deborah Nam-Krane

I have an AMAZING guest post for you today! I read it on my phone and knew it was too good to wait. It’s long, yes, yes, it is but totally worth your time.

How to waste less time on your computer

Reams of virtual ink have been spent on the topic of how much time we waste on social media, but anyone who remembers the 1990s knows that even unconnected computer users have always found distractions when they wanted one. (Ladies and gentlemen, I give you…Solitaire). The tools may be a more varied now, but the effect is the same: one more application to keep us from what we wanted a computer for in the first place: our writing.

I’m here to tell you that you can start using your electronic time more wisely. Here are the strategies that worked for me.

Figure out how much time you have for what you want to do. Even if the most sophisticated piece of technology you own is an analog radio, there are only twenty-four hours in a day, and hopefully you’re sleeping for eight of them. Whether paid or unpaid, most of us work (I homeschool three of my children), so there’s at least another eight to ten hours right there. That leaves about six to eight hours, but some of that is probably filled with meals, socializing and/or family time, community obligations and whatever else you might have going on. So it’s not unfair to say that you might have two to four hours to squeeze in something like writing.

Ask yourself three questions: What else do you want to work on, What, if anything, can you let go of and Where is your free time?

Schedule your time based on your priorities. Make the thing that’s most important to you the first thing you do with whatever free time you’ve identified. If writing is at the top of your list, make that the first thing you do with your free time.

Think in ten, twenty and thirty minute increments. As a writer, it can be painful to think about such a short amount of time; sometimes it can that long to get on a roll, but once you’re on it you don’t want to stop. If that’s you, schedule specific things to do in those small chunks of time: maybe it’s working on the kinks in one of your characters, maybe it’s working on a scene that’s been bothering you for a while.

Consider making one of those short sessions a planning session in which you map out what you want to do over the next few days. It doesn’t have to be a formal outline; just a few notes might do it for many writers. But give yourself some direction so you can use your limited time wisely rather than pining for a non-existent lifestyle in which you have hours at a time to write.

That’s all well and good, but once you open up your internet browser, it’s easy for distractions to literally come flying at you out of your screen. Let’s see what we can do with that.

First and foremost, clean out your inbox! Despite all of the applications out there, if you’re like most people, you’re probably still spending a lot of time in your email. It’s very easy to let your messages pile up, but don’t. It’s easy to lose sight of what needs your attention when it’s buried in thousands of other emails.

If you have a backlog of messages, schedule some time to go through them. Delete what’s irrelevant (do you really need the message from 2008 about your child’s field trip?) and sort what you want to keep. Use labels and/or folders- whatever your mail program offers.

If you find a lot of junk email (it’s almost as bad as junk paper mail), unsubscribe to the offending lists and/or services.

I know this is time consuming. I spent a weekend sorting and deleting over 11,000 messages. The payoff was huge though: there’s something about looking at an empty inbox that makes you feel lighter and more organized.

Use your calendar to schedule writing/blogging and any other appointments. Make your writing something as important as your annual doctor’s visit. In your spanking clean inbox, you can see requests for scheduling more easily. As soon as something comes up, put it in your calendar. Do the same for any other appointments you make offline. Once you’ve scheduled everything, you can get an even better sense of where your time is going.

Use your task list to remind you of tasks you need to get done but don’t have a specific time period for. Most calendaring applications have a companion task list because they recognize that these kinds of obligations exist. Make it a habit (or put in your calendar) to check your task list on a regular basis and see what, if anything, you have firmer information for so you can move it onto your calendar- or just get it done.

What you’ll find after a week if not a few days is that these tips will find you needing to spend less time in your email. This is a good thing. So now you can use other sites without as much of a nagging feeling that there’s something else you should be doing.

As you move away from your email, remember this: Keep only one tab open at a time- and preferably just one application (!). It is all too easy to tell yourself you’re only going to check Twitter for a few minutes, but as you wait those extra few seconds for it to load, you decide to check on your blog reader. Don’t do that. You’ll spend less time on both sites if you systematically go through them one at a time.

One of the benefits of the internet is the ability to connect and find useful information in your field of interest or expertise. Many of us use blogs to find some of that information, but there are now so many that we’d spend a lot of time if we went to each one individually. On top of that, not every blog updates on a regular schedule, so we might be visiting a site with no new updates.

It’s best to use a blog reader like Feedly to manage your blog feeds. You’ll be able to stay up-to-date on all of the blogs you visit, and usually within minutes. In addition, if you want to share the information, Feedly (and most other blog readers) have buttons to share to popular social media sites, including Twitter, Facebook and Google Plus.

Alright- you’ve checked your email, scheduled your appointments, moved tasks onto and off of your task list and gone through your blog reader. Now you’re ready to move onto the social network part of social media.

If you’re like me, you use social media in part to get news, whether from mainstream outlets like The New York Times or non-traditional ones, some of which may be blogs. Twitter, in my experience, has the best bang for your news buck of all of the social media apps. An embarrassment of riches- and too many for me to go through in one sitting.

Use the Read Later button from Instapaper to save stories- and schedule a time to read those stories. Once in Instapaper, create folders so you can store your articles, then go through each one. Since I’m interested in climate science- and those events are usually time-sensitive- I read those first. Stories about the economy I might read later; things don’t change that quickly in that area.

I confess: I use Pinterest. Some of it is professional- I’ve put cast lists for my books there, as well as boards that relate to certain themes I use- some of it is purely research, mostly about homeschooling, food and frugality. I also have boards for the environment and political topics.

If you use Pinterest, use the Pin It! button on your bookmarks bar. Whether you’re doing a web search or you’ve come across something in my social media travels, that’s the easiest way to add something to your boards. That way, you don’t have to jump to Pinterest every time you want to pin something- and you won’t risk being distracted by all of the pretty, shiny things that people you follow have Pinned.

Use Lists on social media wherever you can. I have almost 600 Facebook Friends and I follow about 2600 people on Twitter. I’m also building up my lists on Google Plus. If I were going to use those applications without any filters, I’d either spend a lot of time on each site or I’d get so frustrated I wouldn’t use it- and therefore miss out on a lot of valuable information.

Twitter’s list functionality, in my opinion, is the most reliable. Of the people in my Twitter network, I religiously follow about 45 of them via my Media List. Some of them are outlets like The Wall Street Journal and The New York Times, but I also include independent journalists, bloggers and individuals who lead me to other sources. I’m looking to grow this list, but I don’t see this getting past 100.

Facebook lists, frankly, don’t work that well. They work better if they are smaller and if you choose fewer options; I’ve opted to see only status updates, not photos or things my friends “Like”. However, even with those limitations, using Facebook lists and groups has been the biggest timesaver I’ve employed on social media; I’ve easily cut my time on that site by 60%.

Thus far, Google Plus seems to be most useful for “niche” topics and seems to be sending people in the direction of interest-based Communities. In addition, they offer the option to create Circles (their word for Lists). Every person you associate with has to be put into a Circle, which you can make as specialized as you want. As of right now, because my interactions on Google Plus are more limited, I don’t use the Circle functionality as much, but as my list grows I expect to specialize more.

Don’t feel that you can’t participate in social media without a smartphone. The biggest time suck of all may be your smartphone. Several years ago, I was a Blackberry power user. However, after I realized that checking my phone was the first thing I did in the morning and the last thing I did at night, I made the decision to switch back to a conventional phone. In addition to saving hundreds of dollars per year, I can also still use it for limited social media interaction, particularly via Twitter, which I’ve set up to feed my Facebook network.

Create organized bookmarks- and use them. I saved my best tip for last. It might not get any more Old School than that, but using bookmarks has been the thing that has allowed me to get the most use out of my time on the internet.

I spent about two hours going through all of the bookmarks, and what was most frustrating was that there were a lot of duplicates. (This was almost as frustrating as finding a lot of dead links.) But when I was done I had a neat, clean set of bookmarks that I could use quickly and efficiently.

Organize them by person if you share a computer.  I have little need to see my husband’s legal sites, and he doesn’t need to see my publishing links. By the same token, neither of us have much use for our daughter’s research into summer internships.

Prioritize your bookmarks by what you want- or need- to visit first. If you’re like most people, you’re email is going to be at the top of the list. Next should come your primary vocation- or avocation. In my case, that’s Publishing, which refers to my sales reports as well as my reviews (those I’ve received and those I’ve written). After that put your Social Media links, then your Interest links. (Or vice versa, depending on which sees the most turnover.) Finally, include a space for your Administrative tasks- things you have to do regularly but not every day. In my case, that includes Billing, Banking and Research.

For those sites that don’t fit into a neat category but that you use constantly, keep standalone or uncategorized bookmarks. In my case, those are the Pin It and Read Later buttons from Pinterest and Instapaper, respectively, and the MBTA, Massachusetts’ public transportation system. Those are right up on the bookmark bar so I have easy access to them. Within my personal bookmarks, I have a link for the Boston Public Library and Instapaper because those don’t fit into neat categories (the library is so much more than research or education for us). However, if I found myself with more than five standalone bookmarks, I’d look harder to find a category for them.

Truthfully, it can be a lot of work to set this up, but the results are very satisfying. You will find within a few weeks that your “lost time” is made up for by the amount of time you have left over efficiently going through your sites as opposed to haphazardly going down an electronic rabbit hole. What you do with all of that saved time is up to you, but I’ll make one suggestion: write more.

Deborah Nam-Krane came up with the kernel of The New Pioneers series when she was barely a teenager. It only took 27 years, but she’s finally ready to let the world read it. The Smartest Girl in the Room was released in late March of 2013 and The Family You Choose was released exactly six months later in September of 2013. The China Doll will be released (fingers crossed) by the end of December.

Please connect with Deborah Nam-Krane on any of the following sites:

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Written By Deb

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Guest post: P.A. Moed

Today, an interview with a friend, peer, and writer I admire: P.A. Moed I do hope you’ll give her a read.

Interview

 Why Do You Write?  I am the happiest when I am writing.  It is a great creative and spiritual outlet.   By doing it, I learn so much about myself and other people.  I’ve tried to stop and I simply can’t.  I have to do it.

 Tell Us Something That Doesn’t Appear in Your Bio.  I am a foodie and travel junkie.  I’ve also lived in 6 different states in the U.S.A. 

 What Inspired You to Write this Book?  Believe it or not, I was inspired in the library.  By chance, I came across a news story in The New York Times about a hit-and-run accident in a remote Italian village in September, 1930.   The Italian dictator, Benito Mussolini, was the driver of the car and his passenger was the American millionaire, Cornelius Vanderbilt, Jr.   Mussolini’s car struck and killed a little girl and sped away from the scene.  Mussolini tried to cover up the story, but it hit the news several months later and became an international scandal.  The story was in the headlines for months.

What’s Your Personal Connection to This Story?  I love Italy, and I drew on my memories of my Italian grandparents.  A few years ago, we visited my grandfather’s village–Volturara Irpina–in the mountains south of Naples.  It was very similar to the fictional town of Montebello in my novel.   When we arrived in town on a Sunday morning, groups of men were strolling through the streets chatting and smoking.  But we didn’t see any women.  At noon, the church doors opened and all the women came out. 

I also married into a Jewish family of political activists, so I am fascinated about people who take action against injustice despite the risks.  This helped me create the character of Elio Sardolini in the novel. 

Are Your Characters Drawn from Real Life?  Some are strictly historical figures—like Benito Mussolini and William Randolph Hearst.  Others are similar to people I know—like my father-in-law who marched with Martin Luther King.   Still others are totally imaginary.

 How Long Did It Take You to Write the Book?  About 6 years.

 What Do You Do When You’re Not Writing?  I travel, take photographs, and keep a blog (www.PilotFishblog.com).  I also love to cook and study languages.  Right now, I’m learning Italian.   

 What Did You Enjoy Most About Writing this Book?  Making several trips to Italy to gather ideas and information, and sampling as much pizza and regional cuisine as possible.

 What Was an Unexpected Surprise When Writing This Book?  Several minor characters literally “appeared” in the scene as I was writing.  One of them is the surly café owner Mosca, who is always smoking even while making espresso and washing dishes.  His cynicism about marriage, religion, and politics is refreshing.  I was also surprised to learn that Benito Mussolini exiled political prisoners to remote parts of Italy.   I incorporated that fact into the plot.  That’s why my character, Elio Sardolini, is a Jewish anti-Fascist from Florence who is sent to Montebello as punishment for his political activities.  

 Do You Write From an Outline?  No.  I can’t.  I start writing with a very clear idea of the beginning (the inciting incident) and I know the main characters very well.   The rest of the plot is exploratory.  I like to give the characters the freedom to take the story in unexpected and surprising directions.  When the first draft is completed, then I go back and tighten up the plot.

 Do You Have Any Advice For New Writers?  Take time to learn your craft.  Ask for advice from the experts and don’t let your ego get in the way of truly hearing what they have to say. 

 Should Writers Consider Indie Publishing?  Definitely.  The publishing model is changing and giving more control to the individual artist, who stands to gain a greater share of the royalties.  The challenge, however, is to find your market.  That takes time and effort. 

 What Projects Are You Working On Now?  The sequel to the Incident at Montebello, which is set in Boston during the 1930’s and 1940’s.

 About the Author

P.A. Moed is an award-winning creative artist who has worked as a university professor, writer, textbook editor, photographer, corporate trainer, educational consultant, and instructional designer. Her short stories, photography, poems, and essays have appeared in national newspapers, magazines, and online websites, such as the Christian Science Monitor, Catholic Online Travel, The Washington Post Travel Online, Travelblogs.com, and Cooking Light Magazine.  Her historical mystery novel, The Incident at Montebello, has garnered praise from reviewers and readers alike.  A recipient of writing fellowships at The Vermont Studio Center and Ragdale, she won the grand prize in 2006 Travel Writing Contest sponsored by Condé Nast and Gather.com. She currently lives in Michigan with her husband and hosts the blog http://www.pilotfishblog.com. Contact her at: patriciamoed@gmail.com.

To Learn More About P.A. Moed and Her Work, Check Out the Sites Below:

Website:  http://www.theincidentatmontebello.com

Blog:  http://www.pilotfishblog.com

Amazon Book page:  http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00AKW16CE

(Available in Paperback and Kindle Editions)

Smashwords Page: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/294711

Twitter:  https://twitter.com/pattimoed

 

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Sneak Peeks: new time travel fantasy series

Meet Theda: a girl with power to change the world–if she can survive the Apocalypse.

3 new novellas in a spanky new series (if all goes as planned) by Christmas. To keep up to date on new releases, sign up to my newsletter.

Theda noticed him again, watching her from across the rubble of street, leaning against the graffiti of a building untouched by the warfare that had left most everything around her in ruins. No young teen, this one. Older than her, probably late-twenties. Longish hair the colour of charcoal. He was tall, although he seemed to be doing his best to disguise the fact, all slouched into himself, one boot sole–cowboy boots no less–braced against the wall as though he belonged there when Theda knew damn well he didn’t. He was too groomed, too…well, too damned clean to belong hereabouts.

He leveraged the other foot against the heat of the sidewalk bricks where at least some of them still looked like they had when they’d first been laid: nice and flat and patterned. Not so many of them anymore–too much damage from the holocaust for the cobblestones to look neat. Most now heaved up in places, tripping filthy vagrants and respectable survivors alike, not that the two of those things could be separated anymore either. The mere notion of survivors and vagrants paired up in ways that the sidewalk stones should have but didn’t, at least not in Theda’s part of the supercity.

Even in the shaded late afternoon light, even beneath the shadows of leafy treetops stretching leggy, malnourished branches to heaven, she could tell the guy was studying her.  Looking through her, she thought, as she squatted next to her card table on her side of sidewalk, helping a middle-aged client back to a doddering stand. His presence unnerved her in ways that made her make stupid mistakes, the latest one even now lying prone at her feet and struggling to open his eyes. She couldn’t say she blamed the old guy for passing out—his specific trick had been filled with crusade massacres and his own horrible, impaled fate upon returning home to Turkey.

It was a fate he had rightfully earned, if she had any say, except she didn’t, and besides, she couldn’t say as much to an unconscious john even if she did give a damn. She cared about two things: godspit and money in exactly that order unless she needed money for the godspit, and then the two were reversed. All she concerned herself with was getting paid–just like any professional woman of trade–and in this case, she might have worried about that, so grisly was her client’s remembrance, except she’d long ago learned to get the money up front.

The stalker staked claim to his spot the same as he’d done for the last four days, about ten minutes earlier, before she had a chance to coax said client from a faint on the sidewalk. He must have seen the exchange of money, watched as the codger had fallen, was watching still as she tapped the gent’s cheeks. None of that could be called a mistake, not in separate actions; no. The mistake she’d made, that she’d been making for the last four days, was to ply her trade at all in the face of that unnerving stare from across the street.

Like the hookers that came and went around her, sometimes flashing splinters of smiles at her, sometimes trying to run her off, Theda settled into her chisel-coloured survival instinct the way any good magician did, or would, if said con found herself trying to live out of a cardboard box in the middle of summer, plying her trade from a card table with a bowed in middle and joints rusted nearly clean through.

She turned her tricks from it with the same sense of resolve as the prostitutes that frequented her corner. It was a fair enough description, an easy enough way to describe what she did, except maybe that analogy of prostitution wasn’t even right. Maybe she was more like the fortunetellers of old Earth: like Nostradamus or those famed kids from Fatima. Or like a ghost whisperer in some archaic, entertainment-based television series. Except, all those descriptions failed to nail it down just right because they were gone, and no one in his right mind in this new world would admit to believing anything remotely divine was left behind.

“Take it all away, Theda,” her mom was fond of saying, back before the god had come. “Take it all away and all folks have left to hold onto is faith.”

Well faith had come and gone and left a nothing in its wake but a wasteland that needed to shake its way back to equilibrium. So much for faith; so much for the prophetess’s wisdom.  Nothing left after the great holocaust but a western half of a super city in near ruin and an eastern end robust and teeming with plenty. Oh, and crime, of course. And hedonism. And hopelessness. Those things they had aplenty.

The holocaust, the apocalypse, the rapture as the chosen might have called it, left Theda peering at the bustling afternoon street from a derelict card table day upon day, calling to people as they passed by: “Hey,” she’d coax. “Want a magic beyond any? I can do it for you. Give you some escape.”

Magic. A foolish thing to ply when men wanted sex and debauchery, and she figured that out quickly enough, had to change her come-on, but that was fine; Theda was smart gal.

“I can give you a ride you’ll never forget,” she’d say, and that one would get them. A chance for a filthy old fart to roll out on a girl in her twenties. Old fools. She learned early to target the old men; the younger ones weren’t so inclined to pay for sex, not when they could take it for free. There were a few, yes, but most of them didn’t bother with hookers unless they had some left over sense of morals. And those became less frequent than in the early days of the holocaust. A girl didn’t find fresh-faced young men like her first trick any more; they’d all become too jaded.

She’d offered to do her first trick for half a ten so long as he had the right paperwork. She knew he imagined an experience entirely different than what he got, but she didn’t let it bother her. She merely took his hand as though she planned to lead him off somewhere—an unnecessarily modest notion in the ruins of the super city where hedonism reigned as equally normal as theft and assault.

It made her aware how foolish it would be to tell her mark what he was truly in store for; he might certainly change his mind and solicit another one of the girls that hung around the corner for what he really wanted. She couldn’t have that. She needed the cash.

So she gripped his hand tightly as she’d drawn out her pin and stuck him deftly in the thumb like her mom had taught her. A bubble of blood rose on the pad of his skin and she fought the urge to smear it between her thumb and forefinger as she slipped his greasy digit into her mouth. She concentrated very hard, as hard as she’d ever done when she and her mother worked together in the last days, before they knew it was the last days, when Theda had begun her training. She drew hard on the flesh, pulling in even more of his fluid as she focused.

She got shifts of colours for a few seconds, then the unnerving sound of gunfire, the acrid stink of gas and mouldy earth. She presumed he felt the burning that came with the stink she caught. Mustard gas something whispered to her psyche. So: the poor young fellow—a different young fellow at the time of the vision–had been in the First World War. Had died there right there, retching in his trench, taking a dozen other men with him.

She wasn’t sure how much he’d understood, but she did know he got all of it: every detail, every nuance of sound, each smell and sight. He was there because she was there. And because she was there she knew things about him that he wouldn’t want anyone to know—least of all himself. Poor soul had flattened right out on the remnants of sidewalk and she’d had to rummage through his pockets for the five-dollar bill.

Just like her old gent here.

It was often this way with the reincarnated. When their lives got telecasted to them in living, breathing, reeking colour, they felt the shames again as though they were fresh. Except most of them didn’t quite understand that it was their own soul memories they were experiencing; they imagined it was a reaction to a vision she had somehow pressed into their consciousness, a roller coaster ride of hallucination. They weren’t real sure how she did it, or even if it was something she actually did to them. They just knew they lived something in those moments and it was worth the price of admission. A short bit of exhilaration in a life filled with agony and despair.

Because there was no pleasure in New Earth, not since the god had come, no real joy in living, and so whether a little trick of the light, a trick of the hand, a trick of some sort of hallucination: didn’t matter. It was a pretty trick she turned indeed. No one in New Earth cared about such trivial things as morals, ethics, even the old-fashioned notion of sin. It was back to the primeval concerns of eat, sleep, forage, fornicate, and if all that was taken care of, you moved it up a notch. Steal, kill, use, assault. Same things really, just on another playing level.

Now, not nearly eight months after the war, she actually made enough money to buy an egg salad sandwich each morning from the survivor’s station, one that fortunately came with a smear of godspit taped to the bottom of the cellophane wrapper. The coffee she got free, left on the back step in a thermos by the manager of the station: Ami. A good man for a dealer, even if he was a bit intense for her tastes.

“We’re just going to throw it out,” he’d said of the old brew and she suspected by the quirk of his brow that he also meant if she mentioned the godspit, she might become equally as expendable.

She wasn’t sure why he was being so nice to her. Unless it was because of the trick she’d turned for him, the one he’d said changed his life.

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Halloween specials and Witch-y ebooks: go get em

book 4

Yup. All 4 ebooks in the Witches of Etlantium series are priced at 2.99 during Oct 30-Nov 1, 2013, so if you’ve been waiting to sample the series, wait no more. My way of saying Happy Halloween! Also part of a Witchy Promo I’m involved in with writers of witch type books out there for your Kindle. You can win stuff if you check out the entry form:

Grab em here: Witches of Etlantium on Amazon

 Read what Debra Martin wrote about the series in her Amazon review:

Good News:

The new Theta Waves series is coming soon! sign up for the newsletter for information about new releases so you know when it’s available. Put Beta reader in the subject line and email body, and Thea will send you a eARC of volume 1 before it’s released live in return for an honest review on launch day.

Put street team in the subject line and email body to join Thea’s street team. (goodies, prelaunch copies, and more)

No spam, ever. Just new books.

Filed under: Thea bits