Jennifer Bray-Weber's Blog, page 11
January 8, 2019
Link of the Week – Winter Writing Festival 2019
It’s time once again for the Ruby-Slippered Sisterhood Winter Writing Festival. Time to kick your writing into high gear. WHOOO HOOO!
[image error]Through the bleakest part of winter–January 10, 2018, thru February 28, 2018–the much-anticipated NINTH Annual Ruby Slippered Sisterhood Winter Writing Festival will be here to keep your creative fires burning with support, advice, inspiration, and regular writing sprints in our chat room. There are fun prizes for participants all along the way, including books, critiques, gift cards and Ruby-inspired gifts. And it’s FREE!
Unlike NaNoWriMo and other writing challenges that have a one-size-fits-all approach, the Ruby Winter Writing Festival is designed for you by busy, hard-working women: i.e., we schedule it for AFTER the holidays, and we let you DESIGN YOUR OWN approach to “winning” so it actually fits in with your real life
No matter what stage you’re at right now (brainstorming, plotting, free-writing, fast-drafting, slow-drafting, revising, layering, polishing…or any combination of the above) the Ruby Winter Writing Festival can help you reach your goals.
Did I mention SPRINTS! Yes, I did! Regular sprints are held in our cozy RUBY CHAT ROOM.
Get more detailed details at the Ruby-Slippered Sisterhood blog.
Check out the great advice for a successful Winter Writing Festival at the Ruby-Slippered Sisterhood’s Blog here. Or better still, bookmark the Ruby Slippered-Sisterhood Winter Writing Festival website!
January 1, 2019
Happy New Year – 2019
MuseTracks wishes you the very best for the new year. May every day of 2019 bring you happiness, love, laughter, and success.
December 24, 2018
Merry Christmas & Happy Holidays!
‘Twas the Night Before Christmas – 2018
This will be the 9th straight year I post my rendition of a classic holiday poem. It’s a tradition now. The only variation is the fantasy Santa. A girl can dream…
‘Twas The Night Before Christmas
‘Twas the night before Christmas,
When all through the house
Not a creature was stirring,
Not even my wireless mouse;
The laptop glowed blank[image error]
With all creativity kaput,
My muse took a holiday
From inspiring my book;
The NaNo craze had ended
I’m in edits neck-deep,
While visions of “the end”
Dance out of reach;
Exhausted from writer’s block,
And with my satin sleep mask,
I had just curled into bed
For a short catnap;
When out on the street
There arose such a thunder,
I sprang from my bed
To see what was the rumble.[image error]
Away to the window
In fuzzy slippers, I sprang,
I stumbled and tripped
And drew back the drape.
The vapor lamps casting pools
Of pale light on the street
Gave the luster of mystery
To objects beneath,
When what to my wondering eyes
Caught my sight,
But a red ragtop muscle car,
And eight Harley bikes,
With a super hot driver[image error]
And smirk sinfully salty
I knew in a moment
It must be Tom Hardy.
More handsome in person
His buds they came,
And I whistled and squealed
As he called them by name.
“Now Eastwood! Now Reynolds!
Now Momoa and Tatum!
On Hunnam! On Hemsworth!
On Franco and Heughan!
To the edge of the curb!
To the end of the way!
Now pull over! Pull over!
Pull over here, I say!”
As the growl of engines
Revved and roared,
Testosterone oozed
From their very cores;
So, up to my house[image error]
The hotties they drove,
With Tom Hardy in the lead
Of this tasty treasure trove.
And then in an instant,
I heard them out front,
The back-slapping and laughing
Of each manly hunk.
As I wiped the drool
And raced to the den,
In sauntered Tom
A true perfect ten.
He was dressed all in leather
From his head to his boots
Just like in my dreams
He was lip-smacking good.
A bundle of goodies
He’d flung on his shoulder,[image error]
With his smooth swagger
He simmered and smoldered.
His eyes—how they seared!
His lips, how inviting!
His jawline so strong,
His smirk too enticing!
His russet goatee
Was trimmed just right
And his dark tousled hair
Gilded in the firelight;
The end of a toothpick
He held tight in his teeth,
And he took off his jacket
And rolled up his sleeves;
Leather wristbands and tattoos,
And flawless firm rear,
Completing the package
All but brought me to tears.
He was lean and fit,[image error]
A right sexy heartbreaker,
And I fanned my face,
As plotting struck this story-maker.
A wink of his eye
And I nearly swooned,
Naughty or nice?
My thoughts lampooned;
He spoke not a word
But went straight to his work,
And left festive presents[image error]
As I giggled and lurked,
And smiling at me
My muse had more than awakened,
And giving a nod,
Tom left me a-quakin’.
He hopped in his convertible,
Gave a whistle to his team,
And away they all drove,
Leaving me to scheme.
But I heard him exclaim
Ere he drove out of sight,
“Happy Christmas to all.
And to all a good night.”
December 19, 2018
The Righteous Side of Wicked – Sample the Booty
Lend me yer ears, mates. I’ve another pirate yarn to spin. Another tale filled to the devil’s seam with danger and intrigue at every turn. You’ll find double-crossers, clashing swords, wicked seas, and, of course, spirited passion.
Make ready! The Highlander pirates are back!
Sample the booty below, pass the word, and nab your copy!
1730, Late October
Isle of Man, Irish Sea
“The devil is afoot.”
Coire might have laughed at the irony in Mr. Shaw’s remark had he not felt the same slick unease slithering up his spine.
Minutes ago, they had weighed anchor and slipped into the night on a hushed breeze, his ship’s belly full of contraband. That they were smuggling gunpowder and firearms hadn’t mattered. Coire and his crew had done countless nefarious deeds, commissioned by landowners, powerful men, and scheming governments. ’Twas what they were good at, a prosperous pirate’s life. But tonight, something was…different. Before the sun tucked under the blueing horizon as the men loaded the last of the hogsheads and smaller barrels, he had noticed the change in the wind. He couldn’t put a finger on it, but the foreboding was there, clinging like thick soot. Even now, the dark waves glittering from the light of the full moon were subdued despite the swift currents. Hardly a sound could be heard save the creak of Kelpie’s hull, a twist in her braces, or the whisper of her shrouds. Or so it seemed.
“Best we not get in his way, then, eh, Mr. Shaw? He might find us worthy adversaries to engage.”
The haggard old sea dog’s bushy, graying brows rose as he slowly nodded in amused agreement. “That he may, capt’n. And a grand affair we’d give ’im.” Mr. Shaw cast one last weathered eye out to the darkness before leaving Coire at the railing. He recognized the look in his first mate’s gaze. ’Twas one of longing for warmer climates and friendlier ports. Or maybe Coire directed his own wish upon his interpretation. He wanted to return to the West Indies, resume his privateering ways. And he vowed he would do so…soon.
An unseasonal, low, wispy fog clung to the coastline. Up ahead, Coire could just make out the obscure outline of Peel Castle, the garrisoned administrative center, church, and prison of the west side of the island. Torchlight dotting the castle provided a guide to the open sea and the North Channel beyond.
[image error]It had been brazen coming to Man under the nose of the British for more gunpowder to add to their haul. Brazen, but necessary. He and his men would be paid a hefty sum to get the arms and ammunition to Scarba and into the hands of Jacobite rebels. And they had to do so ahead of planned attacks on key locations. Pockets heavy and lined with gold while aiding in the war against the British succession suited Coire just fine. Though he no longer claimed family there, or allegiance for that matter, Scotland was the home of his blood. She and her people deserved better than to be subjected to the whims of an English parliament and her abusive militias. But ’twasn’t his fight.
Kelpie passed the tidal island which Peel Castle perched upon. More torchlight winked along the battlements. Odd so many lights would be burning at this late hour. A dark silhouette bobbed in the water between the ship and the shore. Was that…a skiff? As soon as he questioned his eyes, his topman straddling a cross tree in the mast above him confirmed it.
“Boat, two points starboard bow,” the topman called down.
As the skiff neared, Coire grasped the rail and squinted hard, willing the thin gossamer veil of fog away. What kind of fool would be out in a tiny boat in the middle of the night?
Aw, hell. His imagination must have been running rampant. Was that a…? Could it be?
Mr. Shaw was once again by his side, along with Jonesy, Redd, and a few other crewmen, all wearing confused expressions.
“Do me deadlights deceive me? Is that a…woman?”
“’Twould appear so, Mr. Shaw.” Indeed, by the figure’s slight frame and long tendrils of hair lifting on the tender breeze, ’twas a female manning the oars.
That sinister unease lingering on the fringes of his conscious all evening suddenly pressed down upon him. Whatever this woman was about, whatever reason for her to be out in a rowboat in the middle of the night, it couldn’t be good.
The lass waved valiantly between pulls of the oars while trying to intercept the ship. Coire ordered the sails reefed before they rammed into her and a line thrown. ’Twasn’t long before the girl had a grip on the rope.
“Hello, there.” The woman’s words rushed out in her shortness of breath, yet she smiled. “A fine evening to ya. Permission to come aboard?”
“What are ye doing out here?” In no way was Coire going to blindly invite someone on board whilst he carried sensitive goods, especially a crazy lass paddling out to sea at midnight.
“Ah, well, ’tis a bit embarrassing, see. I was to rendezvous with a, um, friend on the bank.” She swiped her shirtsleeve across her brow. Though the night air was cool, she would be sweaty from the exertion. “I fell asleep waiting and the tide must have come in.”
[image error]A tryst, eh? She’d willingly admit to it? Coire wasna so quick to believe her story.
“Why is it then, lass, ye are rowing away from the shore instead of to it?”
“Please, sir. ’Tis a long way back and my arms are tired.” She glanced back toward the craggy shoreline and castle losing its shape in the thickening fog.
“Nay, ’tisn’t too far” he assured her. “I’m certain ye can make it.”
“Capt’n.” Jonesy frowned, worry pinching his brow. “Aren’t we gonna rescue the lady?”
“Rescue? The lady is hardly in distress.” Not when he had caught a glimpse of two pistols shoved beneath her waistband. In fact, he was beginning to believe she intentionally set out to board his ship.
“I winna make it,” she called up.
“This is not a vessel ye wish to board, lass. That be a veritable truth. I advise ye to return from which ye came before yer journey back becomes overly taxing.”
Mr. Shaw’s jaws flapped, wrestling with the moral obligation of plucking the lass from the water and the problem she would pose if they did. “This ain’t right.”
“On many levels, I’m afraid,” Coire agreed. “We canna fish her out and go back to the wharf. ’Tis too dangerous and we must stay on schedule. We canna put the mission at risk.”
“Please, captain—” She paused. “Ye are the captain, aye?”
He nodded once. “I am.”
The woman’s grin was gone, replaced by a bothered moue. She flung another glance to the island. “There are sharks in these waters.”
“And ye are in a boat,” Coire pointed out.
“What if I sink?”
“Ye’ve a sturdy craft.” Persistent little fluff. “Let go of the rope or I shall cut it.” Coire drew his dirk and gripped the cord.
“But my boat is sinking.”
“I dinna—”
She tugged out a pistol, pointed it at the hull, and fired a shot. Bits of timber exploded. A puff of smoke and the echo of the blast snagged upon the breeze. Water flooded through the resulting hole.
“Shite! Are ya daft?” She was mad! Hell bent and mad!
“My boat is sinking.” Her calmness was unsettling as she tossed the spent pistol to the floorboards.
The lass had an unflinching composure given the speed her vessel took on water. And that she, herself, went to such lengths to board his ship was enough to set warning bells clanging loud between his ears.
“Drop a ladder!” Coire ordered.
He damned near growled at the sight of the girl standing ankle deep in the faltering skiff patiently waiting for the rope ladder. Her dangerous stunt reinforced why Coire did not trust women. They twisted and crooked circumstances to fit their fancy. Manipulating anyone to get what they wanted, even young impressionable men. Most especially young impressionable men.
Want more? CLICK HERE to order your copy today!
December 18, 2018
The Righteous Side of Wicked – Release Day!
A spy on the run …
Treva MacDougall is running for her life. Not just hers, but those of her clansmen. Fleeing the hangman’s noose, she must reach her rebel cousin in Scotland in time to warn him of an ambush by the Crown. Finagling her way aboard a pirate ship running contraband wasn’t difficult, but ignoring the intense temptation she feels toward the ship’s captain is verra difficult. She can’t allow herself to have feelings for any man, but maybe just one night of sinful pleasure…
A pirate caught in the middle
Coire Fletcher doesn’t trust women. None of them, but especially the dark-haired, moss-eyed lass whose pretty lies got her onto his ship and her sharp wit and undying spirit is getting under his skin. He knows she’s lying—after all, she is a female—but by damned his growing attraction to her is as troubling as a Caribbean hurricane. He won’t be fooled again by a woman, not even one he can’t stop thinking about. He’ll deliver his smuggled goods and Treva at the next port, then sail away. Or so he thinks…
Chased by the British Navy and vengeful enemy pirates alike, Coire and Treva must leave past injustices behind and learn to trust each other…or neither may see another sunrise.
If ye haven’t signed up FOR MY NEWSLETTER for sneak peeks, excerpts, and giveaways, what are you waiting for? All new subscribers can download a free e-book—Bring Me the Horizon.
More holiday goodness. The Laird’s Reckoning is on sale at $1.99 for a limited time!
Don’t forget to Order your copy of THE RIGHTEOUS SIDE OF WICKED today!
Fair winds and following seas and a full mug o’ rum!
December 12, 2018
Hump Day Kick Start – Writing Prompt #42 Holiday Edition
Writing prompts to kick-start your muse.
What do you suppose the reindeer wants to show them? Will it lead them to a Christmas miracle? A surly, green thief to the top of Mount Crumpit? Maybe a yeti has trapped a prospector in a cave. Did Santa fall down a well?
Share your ideas and/or post your creations, even if it’s just a line or two. I’d love to hear them.
December 11, 2018
Link of the Week – Age Counter
My birthday is coming up in a few days. (I accept gift cards, cash, and reviews of my books.) So, I thought I would share a fun link that shows you how many days you’ve defeated death. Er, I mean, how many days old you are. By looking at my numbers, I’d say I’m winning! *clutches chest at the high number*
December 5, 2018
Hump Day Kick Start – All In Edition
Hump Day Kick Start – for your muse, a writing picture prompt, or ju st a visual treat.
High-rollin’ couple. Tell me about them. Is he an international spy at the table with the enemy? Is she his accomplice? Or maybe she is a plant set to betray him, though she might be having second thoughts. Is he desperately trying to win back his family’s estate? Trying to prove his worth to her in a high stakes game with her father? Are they just acting as a diversion for the heist of the century happening in another part of the host’s residence?
What’s your take? Tell me a tale or caption the pic. I’d love to hear from you.
December 4, 2018
Link of the Week – Baby It’s Cold Outside
There was a time when if something offended you, you absolutely had the right to look away, walk away, change the station, etc. Guess what? We still have that option. But it seems far easier for people to scream, stomp, shake their fists, and demand removal over something that they don’t like. Suddenly, everything is offensive.
Take the recent move by a Chicago radio station banning the 40’s holiday classic song “Baby, It’s Cold Outside”. According to many, this song is about rape. Let me pause to laugh and laugh at the absurdity. Yeah. It’s quite okay for artists today to sing, glorify even, about rape, violence, and drug abuse. Or movies with these same elements. And video games giving players extra points for crimes committed, rapes, and murders. But a song from an era that had strict moral standards where women were becoming more independent and gentlemen were dignified and their chivalry meant women had value to them? I call foul.
This week’s link of the week comes from Bored Panda and is what the song “Baby, It’s Cold Outside” is really about from the perspective of a former English teacher. Let me say she nails it.
https://www.boredpanda.com/baby-cold-outside-metoo-song-explanation/
This is the version of the song that I’ve grown up on. Love me some Dean! *swoon*
Just for fun, check out the clip from the 1949 movie “Neptune’s Daughter” where Ester William and Ricardo Montalbán sing the song and then there is the role reversal with Betty Garrett and Red Skelton.
