Gwen Perkins's Blog, page 5

Guest Post: Settling on the Initial Ensemble by Stephen Zimmer

For today’s guest post, I’m tickled to have with us author Stephen Zimmer whose Fires in Eden series is a terrific read. One of the things that stood out to me most when I began reading the series was what a diverse group Stephen chose for his adventures and how adeptly they were handled. (I’m still a little torn on who’s my favorite.)

Now I have to confess that when Stephen asked me what topic he should write about for this post, I gave in to my own selfish desires and asked him to talk a little about how he came up with his fantastic cast of characters. To my joy, he’s accepted!

Settling on the Initial Ensemble

by Stephen Zimmer

My Fires in Eden series (epic fantasy) features an ensemble cast all throughout the novels. This assemblage consists of a mixture of inhabitants of the world of Ave, as well as several characters who derive from our own world and time.

It is these latter characters that carry a little more of a burden in terms of the resonance of the series. Not only are they main characters throughout the books, but they are the very first characters that readers meet in book one, Crown of Vengeance.

To a great degree, it is these characters who determine whether a reader is compelled to follow the story as it progresses from the modern day and moves into the world of Ave. As you might guess, they play a very important role in that regard, and the envisioning of this collection of men and women was taken with great care.

Epic fantasy is very conducive to ensembles, and the key to a good ensemble is to make sure that it contains distinctive individuals. Having them come from a range of backgrounds, ages, and life situations makes for a much more engaging situation when they are thrust suddenly into another entire world. These differences help determine the way that they react to the new world, as well as the way that they relate to each other and the inhabitants of Ave that they are eventually introduced to.

I opted to avoid bringing any of the group into Ave entirely alone. Every member of this ensemble has a pre-existing relationship with at least one other person in the group of eleven that find themselves within Ave, after going through the thick mists. I felt that this gave them a little more anchoring, in helping to adjust to the mind-boggling truth that they had left their own world behind, and it also presents some challenges to the group dynamics with the possibilities of factions taking shape as strife and struggle ensue.

Let’s take a brief look at the group itself to demonstrate what I mean about a collection of distinctive individuals.

Lee is the oldest member of the group, an Asian man in his forties who owns and operates a small Chinese restaurant located near a college campus. He happens to be a friend to the youngest in the group, Ryan, a teenager who, while street smart, comes from a pretty unstable home environment and does not have any mentor in his life more significant than Lee.

Then there is Erika, a very grounded, focused college student who is athletic and strong-willed. She happens to be friends with another student who becomes part of the ensemble, Mershad, who is a muslim going through a very difficult time on a personal level at the time of the events in Crown of Vengeance. Most of his extended family still lives in Iraq, and he has endured a very difficult time with the war still going on. There is a significant cultural difference between him and Erika that causes him a little discomfort interacting openly and directly with her, but this is one of the first things to fade once he is in the grip of the new world.

Next is Logan and Antonio, who are good friends with very different personalities and focuses. Antonio does food delivery for a take out place, while Logan works in graphic art and web design. Logan is introspective and restless in many respects, harboring bigger aspirations, while Antonio is not one with any great ambitions. Logan’s outlook has bigger implications for what happens later, as readers are beginning to learn.

Another group includes Janus, Derek, and Kent, who are all good friends in their later twenties. Derek is a soldier who is an Iraq war veteran with active combat experience, while Kent is a bit of a free spirit, whose father owns a lakeside house. Janus, in Crown of Vengeance, is largely in a mental fog due to the unexpected passing of his father. He is a reflective, quieter type of individual. It is to lift Janus’ spirits that sees Derek and Kent take him for a weekend foray at the lake house, where they make a very fateful foray by boat during one mist-shrouded night.

Finally, there is Lynn and Erin, two younger ladies, early twenties, who are largely living for the moment, and are most concerned about what they will be doing with their friends in a social context than they are about anything else. They are very close friends, but there is a sharp personality difference with Erin being much more sharp-tongued and opinionated than Lynn, who tends to “go with the flow” a little easier. These personality differences have a big impact regarding how the two adjust to things when they are in Ave.

As you can see, the ensemble is very diverse in nature. Age-wise there is a nice mix, with four being around college age, five in the twenty-five to thirty-five demographic, one a teenager, and one in his forties. There is a good range of ethnicities too, as Derek is a black male, Mershad is Arabic, Antonio hispanic, Lee Asian, and the rest of them Caucasian.

I feel this ensemble is anything but homogenous. It offers a lot of dimension and different life experience to draw from, and as the story progresses they must all look to each other to help get through the ordeal of adjusting to a foreign world. Each has their own skills and input to bring to the table. Ultimately, after assembling this group, I felt strongly that with the kind of range in the ensemble there is an extremely good chance that readers will find at least one or more characters in the bunch to really bond with, and relate to.

All of the background elements do have influences on the individual character arcs, as none of them remain static from the beginning to the end of the series. They all grow and change in certain ways, some faster than others. Choices are made, new relationships are formed, and challenges are met.

Seeing the potential and range in these characters, from where they start from to where their arcs take them, is what prompted me to settle on this particular collection of characters to be the modern day ensemble that gets taken back into Ave. They drive a great portion of the story, both directly and in terms of their role within the core story of the series.

Three books into the series, the growth of the characters is now well underway, and much more lies ahead! I can say with surety that I am very pleased with this ensemble, and I hope that readers have as much fun getting to know them as I have!

Intrigued? Pick up one of Stephen’s books over at Amazon. His latest book in the Fires in Eden series, Spirit of Fire, is fresh off the press!

Excerpt: Tales of Lust, Hate, and Despair

Today, we bring you an excerpt from the new novel, Tales of Lust, Hate, and Despair by Ian Truman.

A little about the novel: Samuel Lee has known three days of freedom in the last eighteen years. Three days to come out of prison, see his daughter, settle a score with the mother of his child and her dangerous new boyfriend. Finding shelter in the unlikely company of a group of prostitutes, Sam will have to challenge his friends, his family, and ultimately, himself.

Told in the tradition of the best literary noir, Tales of Lust, Hate and Despair is a modern, lowdown and gritty take on the genre. Inspired by the cinema of Akira Kurosawa and Samuel Fuller as well as the music of Tom Waits, Sage Francis, Neurosis and Marilyn Manson, it is a novel that is sure to please anyone who has ever found themselves trapped and cast aside from the world.

PLEASE NOTE: This novel is for mature readers. Excerpt contains language and violence.

Excerpt

Prologue

Donnaconna Institution

Maximum Security.

145 miles north-east of Montreal

267 inmates

27% serving life sentences

2012

Hey kid.

I know you requested to be here in person but your mother had enough sense not to allow it. You’re not eighteen yet, so her decision is final and I think she made the right call. Donnacona Federal prison ain’t no place for a girl like you.

Now, I know I’m not much of a father, probably because I never had the chance to be one but I am sorry I never got to be there for you. Your grandfather came to visit a few weeks ago. I’m glad to see that there’s at least one person from my side of the family who’s looking out for you. He told me you applied to circus school in Montreal. I never thought you could go to school for that, but he says your heart is set on it. So my heart is now set on it too. I just hope I get to see one of your shows one day. If you’ll have me, of course.

I guess what I want to say is, I ain’t got much, but I do have a little money set aside. Only seven thousand or so, but it’s something. It’s all legit money, so don’t worry about how I raised it. I don’t do drugs and I’ve quit drinking years ago. They don’t pay much here in prison, but I’m working the laundry service for 5.50 a day. I’ve been behaving well, and I got lucky enough to get on a Corcan program twice. It pays a little more and it gives me credits and experience to work when I get out. Now, the money is yours whether you want it or not. I don’t have much use for it in here.

Your mother said you wanted to know what happened that day, said you were pretty insistent about it. I don’t know if it is out of anger, which I wouldn’t hold against you, or if it is out of compassion, but if you think you are old enough to hear these things, I’m ready to tell you.

I don’t know everything for sure, but it was pretty easy to figure out. The news covered the story plenty. I had court records and word of mouth from friends and friends of friends and so on. Anything I didn’t know for sure, I just added in the details that made the most sense. Now, there is still time for you to forget about this because I’m not going to make it pretty for you. I may be a murderer, but a liar is not something I am. I won’t try to get you on my side either. I will tell it like it was and let you decide for yourself.

You have to understand that I hadn’t seen you at that point except in pictures. And even then, it was Mikey who had shown it to me while I was inside. Alice…Well, I thought your mother probably had better places to be or better people to be with. She can say whatever she wants. She never supported me in any way and that is one thing she can’t deny.

But you should’ve seen yourself in that picture. You were beautiful. Oh yes!

Those pure green eyes, brown hair, lovable little cheeks, chubby cheeks, and you wore a little princess outfit with a tiara and a wand. It was nothing too corny. All green with butterfly wings. A fairy princess or something. I’d spend days looking at that picture.

That picture was taken a year prior to that night in the bar. I didn’t know what to expect anymore. How much had you grown? Had you grown all of your baby teeth? Did you like music? Of course, everybody likes music, but what kind and just how much? And I remembered an oath I made to myself back in prison. I swore I’d find me a good guitar when I got out, and I would sing you all the songs I had written about you. And two years is plenty of time to work on songs, let me tell you that.

I imagined myself on a stool, playing the cords on an acoustic guitar and you’d be dancing and twirling and all of that. What can I say? You were my light. Kept me straight and out of trouble, and to this day you still do. It is strange how I’ve never been in trouble while I’ve been in prison, either in Cowansville or here in Donnaconna. I can assure you that there are plenty of ways to get into trouble in here, but I never did thanks to you. Those three days of freedom earned me a lifetime in prison, but I have been at peace ever since, knowing you were alright out there.

In so many ways, you saved me without you even knowing it so I swore I would make sure to tell you someday, what went down and why it happened and now you are asking me just that. I’m not even looking for salvation here, maybe just understanding and forgiveness.

Forgiveness is a long hard road. I just hope you can understand that.

Chapter 1

1996

It was early, early September. The sky was covered with thick gray clouds. There was rain forecast for the evening. The boss was coming down the road driving his best bike: a brand new, flat black, Fat Boy Harley. The exhaust noise echoed all around as he made his way on the deserted street. He pulled on the gas and the bike winded louder which drew a satisfied grin on the man’s face.

He took a left at the gate of an abandoned industrial building lot. It was well fenced-off with plywood and tarps all around so that no one could peek inside. The building was awaiting demolition but the gates were open because the man on the bike also ran the company that would tear the place down. If they had killed me, I might have ended up in the same containers as the demolished concrete. There would have been a pile of rocks, mesh wire, floorboards, busted lamps and a dead Samuel Lee. Nobody would go looking for me.

He parked the bike right next to an old battered Buick Skylark. There were four other cars in the parking lot. The first two were a Cavalier and a revamped Impala. The other two were cars you forgot quickly about: a Hyundai and a Corolla.

He took off his helmet, went inside and up four stories. There were two men at the door, full patched men wearing leather jackets and dark sunglasses inside. They were silent and still, which was contrasted by a hell of a ruckus coming from inside the room.

Now most people imagine a Russian mob to be silent and methodical, likewise a Chinese triad or a Japanese Yakama too, and they’re probably right, but these folks here were brawlers. Boxing was the fanciest martial art they were ever going to do. Their tactics were loud: they rarely got the job done right, let alone done clean.

I remember hearing the metallic door and the boss walking in. The room had been stripped of all features except for the large square frame windows that had seen too many decades. The lights were all shattered and the room was lit up by a series of double-headed industrial work lights. There wasn’t any ventilation on the floor and with twenty men or so surrounding me in a closed space, it quickly felt like we were in the tropics.

Each of them were granted a turn and I was hurting pretty badly. I was breathing heavily as thick, salty sweat was dripping from my forehead. The droplets ran down my cheeks and mixed with the blood pouring down from the cuts around my jaw. A pool of my own blood and sweat was starting to spread on the floor under the chair on which I was tied. I had at least a black eye and a busted lip, two teeth down and most likely a broken rib. But it seemed that would not be enough. I was in for the beating of a lifetime and I knew it was time to get tough when I heard someone say to the boss, “He’s ready.”

But we’re not going to talk about that just yet.

Three days earlier, I was coming out of prison after my first punishable offense. I guess, I seem to be prison-bound, but what can I tell you? All I had was my GED, therefore employment prospects were looking grim. I had a little money set aside, a few hundred dollars, but there I was: unemployed at 26 and back in town.

Just getting on a bus from the Cowansville penitentiary had cost me close to 60 bucks. I took a greyhound and it came to a stop at a junction somewhere in the southwest of Montreal. The stop was little more than a sign on an electric pole in front of a dilapidated gas station on St-Antoine Street. The whole block near the highway bridge, surrounded by old brick duplex and concrete tenements, was dilapidated and in desperate need of a facelift or a wrecking ball.

They might had been fixing the neighborhood a bit further north, building up fancy towers and that hockey arena up the hill, but this block right there, that was the real deal. It was how it used to be. Places like St-Henri, Pointe-St-Charles and the better half of Verdun were standing a mere hundred yards from Westmount, the richest neighborhood in the country. Yet, on this side of the highway stood some of the poorest slums North America had to offer. You could see remnants of fences, with rusting barbwire still attached here and there. Dust, bricks and stolen cars formed most of the scenery around those streets.

In addition to the age old conflict between Francophones and Anglophones there were conflicts between the Irish and the Brits, tensions between the Whites and the Blacks in NDG. A neighborhood which at the time did not stand for Notre-Dame-de-Grace, but rather for “No Damn Good” and “Niggers Drugs and Guns.”

There were open fights about which mob was to control the city port. Add to that the highest dropout rates in the city and an increasing amount of teenage prostitutes, the borough seemed ready to explode.

The city wasn’t all that worried though. The rest of us were not going to barge in Westmount and burn it to the ground. We were too busy fighting one another and they had made it damn near impossible to make it to the top of the hill. There was a cliff, a highway and only one damn north-south tunnel. They could sleep easy.

The bus went its way and I stood there. I was waiting on the corner, busy smoking my second free cigarette in two years. One by the prison door and this one right there. I ain’t had much. I was wearing my grey prison pants and a blue boxing sweatshirt, the ones with the stripes on the shoulder.

It was the middle of the afternoon. The sun was high and strong, though it was clouding over slowly. I had my poor boy hat on. I pulled it down to cover my eyes. I like to think I must’ve looked good, or at least looked like something back then.

Moments later, a beaten up Skylark came by to pick me up. It was a ‘65 or ‘66, something around those years. The one with the round headlights. It was my friend Mikey’s car.

Mikey was a tall skinny black man. He measured 6’3 and weighed 165 pounds at most. His long arms and legs felt more like loose limbs but always had it good with the ladies because he had a wide smile, good hair, good taste and a naturally incredible six pack. The motherfucker didn’t even have to do any sit-ups. I swear.

Once one of the only African-Canadian members the local Anti-Racist-Action skinhead group, he had traded his bomber coats for a job and a career pretty much at the same time I went to prison. I didn’t know just how that had worked from him yet but I knew he was the only friend I could really count on.

The Skylark’s headlights turned off. The radio stopped shouting its profane music. Mikey got out with a large grin on his face, wearing a Fred Perry shirt and dark jeans.

“Has it been two years already?” he asked.

Yes, it had been, I thought. “Two years, less one day,” I replied. I blew out the last of my smoke and threw the stub away.

“You sure?”

Mikey always insisted on repeating things. That was his main flaw. That was his only flaw for that matter.

“I was there, you know,” I said and then we shared a heartfelt hug.

“It’s good to see you out,” he added. “But come on! We got places to go and drinks to drink!”

He went around to his side of the car. I went to mine, threw my bag in the back and slid in the front seat as if he had just picked me up after a game or something. As if I had never been taken away for two years.

We both sat in the vast seats of the Buick. Onyx’s Bacdafucup was in the cassette player. Mikey was driving with one hand on the wheel, the other elbow resting outside the window. He barely made any stops, ran every yellow light that came our way. We were just a bit further out of the southwest and headed towards downtown.

You could see that the buildings there probably were built the exact same time as those in Saint-Henri’s or Little Burgundy boroughs. But at least the owners there seemed to put some effort into renovating their lot. The wood felt fresher, the brick and the stone felt cleaner.

Some of the old industrial buildings had been converted into what looked like an artist center or a university building. Tags one the walls were less gang oriented and more political. “Free Mumia,” one said. Another read “Smash Capitalism –Pcr(co).”

We drove on St-Jacques up to Peel, took a left, and then headed back west when we had crossed the 720.

“So you guys taking me to a strip club?” I asked.

“Pufff, you wish!” Mikey answered. “It’s just going to be you, me and some guys. If you want a lap dance my friend, you’ll have to pay for it yourself. Besides, I’m not taking a man in such a dire need of ass straight to a land full of pussy he can’t fuck. It wouldn’t be fair to you man!”

“You’re a good friend.”

“Yes,” he said as he nodded. “I know I am.”

We were around the Concordia University campus and there was no shortage of fine young women in fashionable clothes. It was the nineties. Kurt Cobain was dead but grunge was still alive. The fall had not kicked in yet and there was plenty of skin showing off. Strong thighs under short skirts, long torn shirts, dirty boots and black nail polish. I was young and out of prison, what’s a man to do?

He parked the car in the toll parking in front of the pub, Crescent Street, under Sainte-Catherine’s where three or four Irish pubs were lined up against the “American pub.” Mikey paid the minimum amount of 12$ evening fee that was to double if he forgot to get out before midnight.

Thank you, the teller said from inside his booth.

“Fuck you,” Mickey answered, politely, and we went to the bar. Of course he had chosen the Irish pub and I was happy about it. Now, I wasn’t Irish, but if I was to salute a flag that wasn’t mine, I was better off in the hands of a people who knew that beer was supposed to have alcohol in it.

Find out more about the book at:

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Excerpt: Propheticus

Author Emma Daley has stopped by today with a teaser for the Propheticus Blog Tour! Here’s an excerpt from her work:

I knocked on the door of the tiny desolate hut and waited in anticipation as I prepared myself to face my past. The camp was far from any of the others and was not as well kept. From the branches of the trees hung the carcasses of tiny dead ani­mals that seemed to be fresh. The fire pit was freshly used, I would say the night before. And all kinds of spears and daggers lay tilted against the outside of the hut. Somewhat fresh foot­steps marked the ground in puddles. They seemed to be going nowhere and everywhere. It was as if she had been pacing the ground over and over and not all in the same spot. I finally spotted a shadow move from within the hut, and called out to the woman. But she hung in the shadows and the only sign that she was even there was the scampering around I heard within the hut and the clanking of things in her path. I called to her to come out from the shadows, reciting the story I had shared with the tribe earlier, in hopes of the same welcoming reaction. She still refused to emerge, so I waited in her tiny camp for her to respond. The children that had followed me there played hide-and-seek in the nearby trees and every once in a while when they heard the clanking from inside the hut and we thought she might emerge, the children were jolted from their carefree game and stood poised to see the woman inside. That went on for hours. I began a different tactic, sing­ing tunes that the Justerians used to sing to their prey to lure them into their hunting traps. It was habit, I suppose. But still there was nothing.

After hours had passed and the copper moon departed, the woman’s tall figure slowly crept out of the dark shadows of the hut. I stared in awe at her physique. She was tall and lean with short golden hair that sparkled in the dark and piercingly blue eyes. She wore leather clothes and always had a weapon strapped to her belt. When she walked, it seemed more like pacing or scurrying the way animals moved when they were on a hunt.

Author Links:

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Excerpt: In the Shadow of Vesuvius

Author Liz Carmichael has stopped by today with a teaser of her book In The Shadow of Vesuvius

All I wanted then was for Levi to put down the tray and leave. Every delay, even the most minor ones, made me want to scream until I had no voice left to scream any more. The sooner Levi went downstairs and cleaned up the kitchen, the sooner he would go to the slave quarters. Then he and the rest of the house would sleep, or at least be out of the way, and I could leave.

But not today – oh, no. Today, he wanted to talk, and he dropped onto the mat next to Remy with a huge, lop-sided grin on his stupid face. His dark-lashed ebony eyes shone with some inner pleasure I neither knew, nor cared to know about.

‘Don’t you have any work to do?’ I folded my arms across my chest.

‘No, I ate while I helped Cook. Then I cleaned the kitchen while Dominus and Domina dined. I’m all yours for now.’ His ridiculous, broad grin stayed teeth-grindingly in place.

‘Well,’ I snapped, ‘Remy won’t eat with some bug-eyed fish staring at him. And I don’t mean the one on the plate. If he becomes too excited he won’t settle for siesta, and that means he’ll be fretful when I take him to his mother.’ With fists on hips, I glared at him. ‘You know what happens then, don’t you?’

Jumping to his feet, Levi held up his hands in surrender. ‘Forgiveness, Domina Mirabelle. Just trying to be friendly, no need to turn into an old shrew. I’ll leave you in peace. Eat. Enjoy.’ Before I could say anything else he left. That’s when I saw the slices of spiced chicken and olives, with a small chunk of cheese and half loaf of bread next to them. Levi had remembered how I much hated fish – eel most of all – or had Cook remembered? Maybe bringing the fish for Remy was Levi’s way of covering up what he had really brought for me.

 

About the Author

Although born in Scotland and spent time in other countries, Liz is now happily settled in Melbourne, Australia. She is an editor as well as a writer and avid reader – especially historical fiction – who loves researching, though she can get so caught up in research she forgets about the story she’s researching for.

Liz also draws and paints for relaxation, and will do illustrations for her books whenever possible. She walks her daughter’s dog because both need the exercise.

She has a Dip. Art (Professional Writing and Editing), and taught writing and editing for two years until the need to concentrate fully on her own writing took over again.

Her favourite authors, in no particular order, are: Sue Monk Kidd, Sara Donati, Geraldine Brooks, Vanora Bennett, Sarah Dunant, Cormac McCarthy, Markus Suzak, Carlos Ruiz Zafon, Robert Harris. For Crime: Michael Connelly, Minette Walters, Jeffrey Deaver, and Dean Koontz for his crime with humour. Newest favourite authors are Anne Obrien and Pauline Gedge – writers of historical fiction, of course.

Author Links:

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Excerpt: Oblivion’s Forge

Simon Williams returns to the blog after yesterday’s interview with an excerpt!  As promised, here’s the first chapter of Oblivion’s Forge, the first in the Aona series.  This novel is available on Completely Novel and Amazon.  

More information about Simon’s novels can be found at his website, www.simonwilliamsauthor.com.

I – A Single Word

I

 As the blackness closed before him, and the fury of the void flung him half-broken to the rocky ground, he thought for a certainty that this would be his last moment.

A dull red sun hung in the distant west, on the point of dissolving into the dusty horizon. Behind him, a scream that seemed to come from the earth itself was cut short savagely, and the black portal that had spat its fury at the unwilling watcher vanished from the world forever.

Vornen opened his eyes hours later, with the sun a faint memory in the west and a biting cold wind tugging at his ragged clothing. Already the first hint of frost settled upon the ground.

He could not move without searing agony crippling him, as if razorwire cut through every muscle in his body, nor could he raise his voice to a whisper, let alone shout for help, and so he wondered how soon the warm sleep of exposure would claim him. In all likelihood he was leagues away from any settlement. Even more likely were the chances of internal wounds killing him, before the frost had a chance.

He tried to sit up, collapsed to the swiftly freezing ground and waited half-aware, the world around him growing dim. Familiar constellations emerged, dotting the chill sky. Neither moon had risen yet. It must be a fourth-night, Vornen thought as the icy breeze numbed his face and brought tears to his eyes. Why couldn’t I remember that before? A fourth-night in the month of Neardark. Winter is stirring.

The last scraps of light disappeared in the west. Vornen felt blood flow into his mouth; when he spat it out, a sudden agonising convulsion in his stomach gripped him, and for a moment even the sky faded as pain consumed what was left of his world. Gods, let it be soon, he thought weakly.

But with the onset of full darkness came steady footfall, accompanied by a faint jangling, and then a chulan woman- all harshness and sinew, perhaps chief among the huntspeople of her village judging by the amulets she wore. Gazing without expression upon his sorry form, she stood above him for a moment as he stared wordlessly up at her. Pain stabbed through him in a dozen places as she gathered him up. Unable to scream his agony, he could utter only a faint gasp before passing out.

She bore him back to her cart, and then along a stony track to her settlement. Later, in a moment of lucidity, Vornen heard low murmurs of excitement, vaguely remembered lamp light and a little later, the smell of meat cooking over an open fire. Voices were raised at one point; an argument took place between two people- one male, one female- both of whom were nothing more than shadows across the canopy of the tent in which he lay. It grew lighter; he slept again. Voices came and went. Nightfall approached, and with it came silence so deep that for a while he wondered if he had been abandoned. Sometime after that- he fancied it might be growing light again, but he could not be sure- he heard children laughing as they ran past outside. Later still, a wind gathered strength around the place where he rested; it sounded like a continuous howl of grief.

Finally, all these things became memories, or perhaps dreams; he slept deeply and without turning, for days. From time to time he was brought out of his slumber by a chulan healer, to take sips of water that felt like silk inside his throat. Perhaps it was not just water. His voice having fled, he could not ask for more of it, yet he gestured weakly instead. It did no good; the healers gave him only as much as they thought he needed.

Then one morning, suddenly he woke of his own accord, with sunlight upon his bed and a sharp ache throughout his body, as if all his muscles had been beaten to a pulp. Perhaps knowing already of his stirring, a healer’s assistant came to feed him hot, thick broth laced with spices, and the first bread of the morning. The food was offered to him a little at a time, the timid girl squatting patiently by his bedside. She fed him as one might feed a helpless child, in considerate silence, the ritual perhaps familiar to her and so could be repeated endlessly without thought.

A while later, agonising pain ripped through his stomach; he had at least the strength to cry out, and they came to him just as his breakfast passed out of him in a haze of heat and pain. In silence they cleaned and then bathed him, and then made him drink water laced with sour-root, mint and fennel and another, bittersweet herb that he could not recognise. He rested, even managing the weakest of smiles as he observed the pan that had been placed in a helpful position by the side of his bed.

Another day passed, and he recovered sufficiently to walk. The healers occasionally came to watch him take tentative steps, or to encourage him if he felt unable to. Always at least one assistant was present. Most of them could not speak Hastian or any language but their own, yet their words of encouragement could not be clearer.

Finally, with his recovery judged to be sufficient, he was taken, with a green-clad healer’s assistant on either side in case he stumbled and fell, to a hut where the woman who had found him waited. Vornen knew already that questions would be asked. The chulan had a certain sensitivity to murmurings and movements that changed the Existence, living closely attuned to the earth and its shapings. Perhaps that was why he had been found as quickly as he had. Perhaps she too had in her own way been drawn to the opening, the moment when the Gate suddenly and savagely appeared.

Vornen was admitted into the sparse darkness of the woman’s dwelling, where she sat cross-legged upon the ground. Several necklaces glittered faintly in the gloom. Despite the chill air, she wore only a thin cotton shift and skirts. Her grey hair hung unkempt and lank to her shoulders. The remains of a fire gleamed sullenly in the hearth, faintly illuminating her on one side. The other lay in thick shadow.

“I am Ona,” she said simply. The chulan people rarely bothered with titles of any sort, viewing them as pointless. It was a belief that Vornen admired.

He bowed slightly, wincing at a sudden savage pain in his neck. It would be many days before he moved without some physical reminder of what he had witnessed, even though his actual memories had already lost some of their edge. “I am Vornen.” After a moment’s hesitation, he felt as if he should explain himself further, given her stony, expectant silence. “I am… well, a traveller in a sense…”

“I know what you are,” she intervened. “I know how you came to be here. Tell me what you have seen.”

Vornen smiled warily. “What I’ve seen?”

She leaned forward, the hearth-light moving slowly across her face and illuminating her harsh countenance. “Youwill tell me, Vornen, or you will not leave Ui-choran alive. How did you come to be here, at that exact moment? I will have answers.”

Vornen felt the smile drain from his face. “As you wish. I am drawn to them. I have always been drawn to them. I can help that fact no more than you can help breathing.”

She reached out and touched one of his new scars, a curiously curved gouge that he had first seen for himself when one of the healers had given him the use of a looking-glass. A sudden hungry look entered her eyes. “You were there,” she accused him. “You were there as it happened. You were there at the opening and the closing.” She licked her lips, nodding in agreement with herself. “I have never been witness to such as that. I feel them from afar, sometimes. They are gone before I arrive. Long gone. All that is ever left for me is the odd… emptiness in the air.”

“I would have perished were it not for you,” Vornen said, hoping they might talk of her people’s good deed rather than the Gate. “I thank you for saving for me, and your people for nursing me back to some sort of health.” He winced as another spasm in his back reminded him that his recovery would not be complete for a while yet.

“Never mind that,” Ona said dismissively. “Had I found you anywhere else, I would have left you to stiffen in the frost.” She sat back, now almost entirely cast in shadow. “I must know what you saw between the opening and the closing. If you won’t…” She shrugged. “I can have our healers undo their work. I am sure with some effort we can create again the state you were in when I picked you from the hillside.”

Neither of them spoke for a long while. “I saw the darkness of the void,” Vornen said eventually. His voice had changed, although he did not notice. As he spoke, it seemed that even in the gloom of Ona’s hut, something blacker and deeper opened before him. “I saw stars. Other stars, not those we see above us. I heard things… noises. Numbers. Directions.”

Ona said nothing, but she leaned forward intently. Perhaps without knowing, she touched each of her necklaces in turn, as if to evoke the protection of whatever Gods the chulan worshipped these days. Suddenly Vornen recalled something else, a terrible truth he had sensed whilst staring into the abyss of space. “Gods, I remember,” he whispered. “I remembernow.”

“What?” The fear in his heart glittered in her eyes. “What?”

 

“The voices. Of some…” Vornen shivered. He could not even describe those voices to her. They did not belong to any creature, any life that he could understand. They were disembodied fragments from some distant corner of the Existence; they were the harsh noises of something that had spent an eternity looking for a world, the most important of all worlds…

“It is coming. They are coming.” He blinked and looked at Ona. “They have found Aona.”

“Make sense. Who?”

Vornen shook his head. “I don’t know any name for them. I don’t know what they are.” Suddenly he began to shiver, and the shivering became uncontrollable. As he collapsed on his side, his sight becoming a hot feverish blur, Ona cursed and barked out something in the chulan language, and someone rushed in through the doorway. Vornen lost consciousness as he was taken back to his bedchamber.

He woke sometime later; it was dark outside and Ildar had just risen in the east. Vornen lay on his mattress and contemplated an altogether different sky. I will not see that one again, he thought. It’s never the same one. How many stars are there across the Existence, hanging in the void? Some uncountable number?

Then a name came to him, and he knew it was the name to which the voices belonged.

Marandaal.

He whispered the word over and over, not knowing what it meant, but fearing the strange resonance that it had.

They are coming.

The unspeakable fear that clawed its way through his mind was impossible to bear. He opened his mouth and screamed. He continued screaming until three of the chulan folk held him down and sedated him.

Ona came to see him hours later, when he was still weak and disoriented from the sedative herbs he had been given. He could not speak, but she had no questions for him in any case. She stood and regarded him in silence for a long while, and it seemed to Vornen that she was torn between the need to ask him more questions and fear of what he had already told her.

A week later, recovered fully, he was away from the chulan village, supplied with gifts of winter food for whatever journey lay ahead. He thanked them, humbled by the generosity of people who had little enough to feed themselves, and then he left, heading south-east. A deep, nagging unease tore at him as he walked the narrow trail through the vastness of the Chor Valley whose southern end opened out into the Plains. It was a far worse sensation than the physical wounds that still caused him pain, and no chance did he have of it fading away.

The name, he thought, not daring to speak it to himself or even mouth it. I always thought that names were immaterial, nothing more than signatures that had filtered down through the Ages, possibly a different one for every race in Aphenhast or even the whole of Aona. But this name is different.

Has anyone ever withstood them? he pondered on the third day after his departure from village, as he rested on the threshold of the great Plains, eating.

There was no answer, of course. Has this happened before? he wondered. A nagging sensation troubled him, told him that perhaps it had. But surely these were ancient events, unwritten anywhere here. No parallel existed that he had heard of. The script was itself unwritten; this was a world that had long since moved on and forgotten about the myths of past Ages.

What can I do, except spread rumours and fears? he thought, staring morosely across the moorland. The chulanwoman knew I spoke the truth. She felt it as much as heard it. But it means nothing in itself.

Forget about it, his sly and lazy part told him. Soon you will be drawn elsewhere, you’ll find other truths. You can do nothing, so do nothing.

The wind rustled his shoulder-length brown hair. His wary, greyish eyes took in the distant scenery for a long while, until it seemed he had lost himself. This haggard, scarred man who looked washed free of life’s colours, would have seemed utterly transfixed to anyone passing by. But here, no one passed by. This was, and always had been, a barren part of the land-a vastness in which to lose myself, he thought.

A grey mass of cloud gathered in the east and in the north, stretching across the vast heights of the Pinnacles; the first severe snowfall of the coming winter. It would arrive sometime tomorrow, and had probably already blanketed thechulan village.

He ate what little he needed to satisfy his scant appetite, and at length he lay down to sleep. But sleep would not come. The myriad stars above shimmered, and he stared up at them with thoughts racing through his mind. A measure of the rapture he had felt fleetingly as a child, face upturned to the heavens, returned; that quiet excitement and wonder. But now it was tinged with fear; real, tangible fear.

Vornen could not sleep, and dawn found him on the move again, striding over the frost, and silently wishing the burden that was his could be erased.

Author Interview: Simon Williams

It is my great pleasure today to have Simon Williams on the site, author of the Aona series. As part of a two-stop visit, today I feature an interview with him. Tomorrow, we’ll get a chance for a sneak peek into his novel, Oblivion’s Forge.

Gwen: It’s good to have you here today, Simon! Tell us a little bit about the Aona series.

Simon: It’s a series of what may well end up being five books- the first two are completed and pubished and I’m working on the third. Hopefully I’ll have to available by the end of the year. The series could be described as “dark fantasy” but is also technically futuristic (albeit very distant future) – although this becomes apparent quite gradually.

Rather than a standard chronicle of “good versus evil”, the Aona books are really more about what happens to the characters that make up the story when faced with the threat of evil on all sides- two great forces preparing to do battle. As one such character points out bleakly: “Light and dark, but all of it evil.”

So it’s also about survival and battling against seemingly insurmountable odds, set in a fantasy world which also has elements of “tech” in it (particularly as the story moves on and we learn more about the actual nature of this world and how the various races came to be here).

Gwen: Your first book, Oblivion’s Forge, is about what happens when a race of beings find something that they’ve been searching for for a long time. It’s a classic theme of literature but I’m wondering, was there anything in your own life that sparked the choice to write an exodus story? Any personal anecdotes behind the creation of Aona?

Simon: Not personally as such, but to an extent, although I wasn’t consciously influenced by any pre-existing works of fiction, I was influenced to an extent by films such as Blade Runner and Terminator 2. That may seem a little odd given that they’re much more sci-fi than fantasy, but anyone who reads the books will see soon enough that the influences are there (somewhat tenuous influences but there nonetheless!)

Gwen: Your world is decidedly dark, with weakening wizards and characters who must make difficult choices. The story is beautifully written but as a writer myself, I know how wrenching it can be to tell these kinds of tales. Were there any moments that you struggled with as you wrote Oblivion Forge and Secret Roads?

Simon: Oddly enough I have no trouble at all writing the dark / disturbing scenes, but I struggled a little for a time when I was putting the characters together and developing their relationships. It wasn’t a major obstacle, but in the third book, The Endless Shore, some of these relationships become more serious, and I need to find a way of making them real, making them work with the story. By this time, with the relationships having become more involved, “deeper” if you will, I’m hoping that they will be easier to visualize. But it’s a part of writing that doesn’t come especially easily, perhaps because of its complexity. The solution is simply to write it, write it again, write it a third time- and keep writing and keep visualizing until it’s there and until it works.

Gwen: With that in mind, as you worked on these stories, did you find that writing them affected your own view of the world or of the people around you?

Simon: It’s the other way round really. I think every writer’s view of the “real” world (and it’s becoming increasingly difficult to distinguish what is “real” or “true” from what isn’t, given the ever-increasing pace of information) helps shape their works, whether they’re a fantasy writer or not.

Gwen: To talk a little about the book’s mechanics, I know that you’ve recently made the choice to make the Aona books available for Kindle and it seems to have been a hard decision. Tell us a little bit about that.

Simon: It was one of those “if you can’t beat ‘em…” decisions. I’m still a fan of physical books, and I do find it a little sad that authors have been often reduced to selling their books for next to nothing via Kindle, or even giving them away- but that’s the way the world is, and there’s no going back, so I decided to make Oblivion’s Forge available on Kindle- and Secret Roads will also be available soon.

I guess also I like the idea of physical books in that they linger on long after a writer has ceased to exist; somehow, the idea of someone in some future time coming across a hard copy and reading it seems a nice one than thousands of free copies floating pointlessly around in cyberspace…

Gwen: That is a sentiment I definitely agree with. It does make one wonder what books will linger three generations from now.

Switching subjects a bit, do you have any new projects on the horizon?

Simon: There are *always* new projects on the horizon! Aside from the third Aona book, which is progressing well, I’m compiling an anthology of short stories- some older ones that were published a while back, but also some new ones- although I haven’t a clue what to call it yet.

And my other project is a book called The Spiral, which is an experimental work that I can’t even adequately describe as yet! But I’m quite excited about it.

Gwen: How can readers find out more about you and your books?

Simon: My main site is www.simonwilliamsauthor.com but my blog site at www.worldofaona.com is updated much more frequently.

And there are tasters of both Oblivion’s Forge and Secret Roads available on Completely Novel.

Excerpt: The Orphan, the Soul Catcher and the Black Blizzard

Author Kimberlee Ann Bastian has stopped by my blog today with an excerpt from The Orphan, the Soul Catcher and the Black Blizzard for her blog tour. Check it out!

“Harry’s Billiards”

From Chapter 7: Summit – Charlie and Bartholomew arrive at Harry’s Billiards for the gang truce Charlie is to negotiate between Victor (the Polish Leader) and Kalvis (the Lithuanian Leader)

“Ah, Kalvis,” welcomes the bald man as he comes up to the short man, greeting him with a friendly hand. “It’s quite da pleasure, been too long.”

The short man takes his eyes off Bartholomew and addresses the bald man, welcoming him with enthusiasm.

“That it has, my friend,” says Kalvis as he shakes the bald man’s hand. “And how have you been, Harry?”

The bald man frowns. “Not well. Business has been slow.”

“Naturally,” says Kalvis, withdrawing his hand to pull down his cufflink. “I see the others have arrived. Have they been waiting long?”

“No,” responds Bartholomew. He squeezes his lips shut realizing the question was not for just anyone to answer.

The short man brings his hawk eyes back on Bartholomew and then to Charlie.

“Morning, Charles,” says Kalvis, his square face holding a rather pleasing, but indifferent expression.

Charlie shivers. No one, except for his mother, could call him by his given name. Under the circumstances, however, he would have to tolerate Kalvis’s use of it a little longer.

“And morning to you, Kalvis,” he replies graciously. “May I introduce my friend, Buck Lipinski.”

Kalvis again looks at Bartholomew, still unsure what to make of the lad. On the outside, he sees the odd Englishman clothing of centuries long ago and his thin physique leading him to believe the boy is nothing more than a rag-a-muffin. Then again, unlike his brutish rival, Kalvis has never been one to judge so quickly. Kalvis smiles and does his best to present himself as a man of warmth. He extends his stubby hand to Bartholomew. For anyone who is important to Charlie is even more important to him.

Bartholomew seizes Kalvis’s hand without hesitation, even though his inner voice screams run away. There is something even more untrustworthy about him, even if his grip is gentler than Victor’s brutish grasp. He knows a coyote in sheep’s clothing when he sees one.

“A pleasure to meet you, Kalvis,” says Bartholomew. He hopes it is all right for him to make a polite introduction. Charlie did not tell him otherwise and Kalvis seems like a man who needs a solid first impression.

Kalvis laughs heartily. “I say, Charlie, a right young gentleman this one you have here.”

“Yes,” says Charlie lightly, keeping his tone even. “I tried talking some street sense into him, but it didn’t take.”

Kalvis’s laugh returns as he lets go of Bartholomew’s hand. “You hear that, Honest Harry, you may have some competition on your hands,” he teases.

“By Jove, Kalvis, I think ya might be right,” chuckles the bald man, the whiskers under his nose quivering.

Bartholomew gives a half smile, not realizing the men are laughing at him.

Charlie on the other hand does understand the point of the jest and does not appreciate them picking on Buck, especially when he cannot defend himself. He could have stood up for him, but remains neutral. He lets out an empty-hearted laugh to join them. It is not one of his most shining moments, but he cannot help failing his good nature. He knows how much of a show Kalvis puts on for him, always trying to make him feel like he can trust him. In addition, Charlie knows it is not wise to stand up to Kalvis in front of others, especially not a rival. And Charlie cannot afford provoking the Lithuanian gang leader.

Charlie waits for the men to quiet before addressing them, but Victor beats him to it.

“I see things haven’t changed, Kalvis, still heckling on those shorter than you,” says Victor as he stands behind Charlie and Bartholomew. His men close in ranks behind him.

Kalvis’s expression changes instantly into a look of apology. His hawk eyes become less piercing and just to spite Victor, he acknowledges his error.

“Excuse, my rudeness, Buck—Charles. I only meant it in good humor, no harm.”

“Certainly, Kalvis, no harm,” says Charlie angry he did not speak up first.

An uneasy silence falls over everyone after that, each man ready to attack and beat another man to a pulp.

Charlie watches Kalvis intently, as his gaze falls on Bartholomew. Lithuanian’s face beams with the makings of a plan, and Charlie can only venture a guess at his intentions. He peers at Bartholomew and lets out a quiet breath. He should not have brought him here. Still, Charlie does take a little comfort in the knowledge he is not alone.

“Shall we, gentlemen?” asks Charlie.

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Author Interview: Alana Lorens

It’s a busy week for interviews here at A Few Words.  Today, I’m pleased to welcome Alana Lorens to the blog.  Alana’s here to talk about love, law, and the dramatic inspirations behind her new novel, Conviction of the Heart.  

Gwen:  Welcome to the blog, Alana.  Tell us a little bit about Conviction of the Heart.  I know that when I read the summary of the novel, knowing what I do about your background, I found the concept fascinating.

Alana:  Here’s the blurb that kind of sums it up:

Family law attorney Suzanne Taylor understands her clients’ problems—her own husband left her with two babies to raise alone. Now that they’re teenagers, her life is full. The last thing she wants is the romantic attentions of a police lieutenant, no matter how good-looking.

Lt. Nick Sansone is juggling the demands of a new promotion, and doesn’t need complications either. But when he sends a councilman’s battered wife to Suzanne for help, he realizes he wants to connect with the lovely, prickly lawyer on more than a professional level.

They are soon confronted with a different battle, when the abused woman’s husband threatens retribution. The powerful, well-connected councilman can damage both their careers—not to mention hurt those they love. Can they bend enough to admit they need each other in a time of crisis? Or will a husband’s revenge take them down before they ever get a chance?

Gwen:  I know that we all carry some of our own history into our writing but as a fantasy writer, I find that I often have to translate my personal experience.  Now I understand that you have a background in law yourself, Alana.  How did that influence you in writing this book?

Alana: Suzanne’s story is a lot like my story. I went to law school as a single mother with two preschoolers, and during many of their growing-up years, I had my own practice without having a man to contribute to our lives. My practice has been family law all along, and that subject matter carries some real tough issues along with it. I have a bullet hole in my office window, from someone unhappy that I represented their spouse. I’ve sat in hallways with women who were too afraid to even face their abuser, just on the off chance they might look him in the eye and lose their nerve. I’ve taught classes in independence, step by step, showing abuse survivors the way to learn to take care of themselves, mentally, financially and legally.  Of all the things I’ve written, there is probably more of me in this book.

Gwen:  Writing that intensely can be a struggle personally but I’ve found that it often leads to great rewards.

Still, even with stories based on our own experience, there’s often the need to incorporate places and people that we didn’t know about before.  What was one thing you discovered over the course of creating Conviction of the Heart?

Alana:  I’d been to Pittsburgh a number of times, but I really didn’t know much about the various neighborhoods. In order to set the social strata correctly, I had to go visit some of the ritzy sections for the councilman’s home and also the less wealthy to choose a place where we might find the young prostitute Cassandra.

Gwen:  There are so many compelling people that we encounter in this story.  Do you have a favorite character in the book?  Hard question to ask a writer, I know…aren’t they all our favorite characters?

Alana:  It is hard to choose! Suzanne is so much like me that I can’t really call her my favorite. Nick Sansone, the hero, on the other hand, is a great guy who’s never found the right woman, and so he’s over 40 and never married. He’s not looking for casual sex or time-wasting dates. His mom and dad had a wonderful, solid marriage that lasted for forty years, and they raised him to respect that lifestyle, so that’s what he wants, too. It’s kind of a staple in the Pittsburgh culture—families with strong religious roots and ethnic ties, blue collar, solid citizen. And Nick is definitely cut from that cloth. When the villain takes Nick’s good name and reputation and trashes it, it pains Nick probably more than a bullet wound could have done, because he really values the honor he brings to the table.

Gwen:  Let’s go back to Suzanne for a moment.  This character is surrounded by adversity in her life.  She’s a family law attorney, she’s raising teenagers alone, and she has this tremendous case looming ahead.  What do you think her greatest challenge is?

Alana:   She’s pretty confident about her abilities in the courtroom, so I don’t think she’s really preoccupied with the technical aspects of defending her client, Maddie Morgan, against her abusive husband. Once the abusive husband makes the case personal, attacking first Suzanne, then her new relationship, and finally her defenseless children, then she really has to kick up her game to the highest level. She has some really good kids, and they’ve been a little insulated from their mother’s job—but a real villain knows how to break into those mother-child bonds.  Sadly for him, he doesn’t realize just what this mama grizzly will do to protect her children.

Gwen:  As a mother myself, I can really relate to strong women with a lot on their plates.  How does Suzanne find ways to cope with everything that she faces?

Alana:  Suzanne has created a little corner of her own in her remodeled farmhouse, a home office that nourishes her and she can go there when she needs to de-stress:

Several hours later, the dishes done, daughters in bed, Suzanne retired to her office to complete the work she’d brought home. She spread her materials out on the polished oak rolltop desk, one of the prized possessions of her sanctuary.

                When the farmhouse had been remodeled, Suzanne had taken great pains to make this room as comfortable as possible, because she planned to spend a lot of time in it.  The southern exposure held a bay window with a seat cushion matching the sage and mustard, large-flowered chintz draperies which fell from ceiling to floor, ruffling softly at the bottom. The room’s west window was filled with plants, hanging, potted, rooting, that benefited from the long hours of sunshine each day. Paintings of geraniums and other flowers hung on off-white walls. A conversation corner grouping of natural rattan with soft flowered cushions, ruffled pillows and a glass-jar lamp filled with sea shells completed the office.

It also allows her to work from home when she can, so she can keep an eye on her teenaged daughters—in this day and age, unsupervised teens can get into so much trouble so quickly!

Gwen:  I’m pretty sure that was true even back when I was a teenager.  [grins]  So I’ve got to ask–we know about Suzanne but how about you, Alana?  Do you have any coping strategies you’d like to share with us?

Alana:  Juggling so many things as I do, I definitely relate to the need to create space for myself. One of the best gifts I’ve come across lately is the ability to say “no” when people ask me to volunteer for things. Sure, I probably could do whatever it is, but if it’s going to create pressure and upset the rest of my day, then is it really worth it? Not usually. This leaves me time to say “yes” only to those things I really want to do.

Gwen:  There’s one last question that I’d like to ask before we go and it’s perhaps a tricky one to answer.  Conviction of the Heart deals with the difficult topic of domestic violence.  Do you have any advice for authors who write about sensitive themes?

Alana:  Some of the women and men I’ve worked with over the years have been the strongest people I know, and have lived through lives that would bring others to their knees. If I’m able to convey part of this journey in a way that explains their situation to others—i.e. answer the question “Well why doesn’t she just leave?”—which isn’t really the          questions at all—then I’ve shed a little light that might help make the next survivor’s road easier.  Domestic violence is epidemic in this country and even worse in other countries around the world. Shining a light on those who’d like to help , and being thoughtful about how their stories are conveyed, is something I think authors can do.

Gwen:  Is there anything you’d like to share with our readers?

Alana:  I hope you read CONVICTION OF THE HEART, and that you enjoy it. The issue of domestic violence is one that creeps through the social strata of our society, men and women, rich and poor, young and old. The Centers for Disease Control announced last week findings from a ground breaking study that indicates domestic and sexual violence against American women at epidemic rates that affects “on average, 24 people per minute are victims of rape, physical violence, or stalking by an intimate partner.” Everyone can help—contact your local battered women’s shelter or support agency and find out how you can volunteer.

Not sure where yours is?  Look it up here: http://www.ncadv.org/resources/StateCoalitionList.php

To purchase Conviction of the Heart, visit Alana’s website.

DUAL BOOK/BLOG TOUR!!

CONVICTION OF THE HEART (release date June 8, 2012)

And SECOND CHANCES (release date July 2012)

The first and Second books of the Pittsburgh Lady Lawyer Series!

Come by the following blogs or live booksignings listed on Alana’s website and leave a comment to be entered in a drawing—at the end of the tour, Alana will give away one ebook copy of each book and one paperback copy of each book—Four lucky winners!

About the Author

Alana Lorens (aka Barbara Mountjoy) has been a published writer for over 35 years, including seven years as a reporter and editor at theSouth Dade News Leader in Homestead, Florida. Her list of publications includes the non-fiction book 101 Little Instructions for Surviving Your Divorce, published by Impact Publishers in 1999, stories in A Cup of Comfort for Divorced Women, in December 2008, and A Cup of Comfort for Adoptive Parents, in June 2009. Her Clan Elves of the Bitterroot series (as Lyndi Alexander) is available from Dragonfly Publishing; THE ELF QUEEN in 2010, THE ELF CHILD in 2011, and THE ELF MAGE in 2012.

Her newest release (as Alana Lorens) is SECRETS IN THE SAND, in the Crimson Rose line from The Wild Rose Press. CONVICTION OF THE HEART is her sixth published novel, which will be followed in July 2012 with SECOND CHANCES, a women’s fiction with romantic elements story. The Wild Rose Press is also publishing her contemporary romance novella THAT GIRL’S THE ONE I LOVE later this summer.

When she’s not busy writing, practicing law or teaching, she takes care of a husband and a bunch of kids and blogs on a variety of subjects, including autism, science fiction and life at Awalkabout.

Author Interview: Peter Giglio

Words can’t express how thrilled I am to have Peter Giglio, Pushcart Prize-nominated horror author, on this site.

Horror is what I cut (or perhaps, sharpened) my teeth on as a young adult and my love for the genre has definitely influenced me as a writer.  Peter is one of my favorite authors, not just in horror but overall.   He takes ordinary people and places them in extraordinary circumstances but he does so without losing the nicks and scars and flaws that make them so real.  His novels tend to resonate with me in ways that I never could have anticipated.  His latest, Beyond Anon, is no different.

Today, we’re discussing both Anon novels along with Peter’s upcoming projects and what keeps him awake at night.

Gwen:  When I first read Anon, it hit me like a hammer because it reminded me of my days working retail.  There’s a line in a Radiohead song, actually, that sums that whole period up for me: “…a job that slowly kills you, bruises that won’t heal…”  And that’s the sense that I had while reading Anon—the idea that there’s a corporation that owns you but that doesn’t even know what it is that they own.

So, Pete, where does Anon come from?  Is there a similar connection between you and previous life experience that contributed to conceiving this novel?

Peter: Oddly, I had great workplace experiences. But I followed the world banking crisis closely. I’d also been reading a lot about Nazi Germany. These things came together at the right time. Then one night I was watching an old re-run of Cheers, of all things, and Shelly Long (aka Diane Chambers) used the word “Anon.” I wasn’t interested in the modern use of the word, a shortening of “anonymous.” I was more interested in the real meaning of the word, and the concept of anxiety and how that feeling leads people to accept things they normally wouldn’t. The trains did run on time during Hitler’s reign of power; he was even Time Magazine’s man of the year.  And his system of evil wasn’t his alone. He was so popular that he was able to sell his brand of evil wholesale. Considering the evil of our financial organizations, I thought about everyone who was able to get a mortgage and seemingly achieve their “American Dream,” whether their loans should have been approved or not. Again, the banks were able to sell wrong by giving people what they wanted.

Anxiety! People worried they’d never own a home. Anxiety! Europe was anxious for stability! Anxiety! That was where I wanted to take Anon. And that archaic word—which means soon, presently, shortly, immediately, forthwith—rang through my head. That’s what financial organizations had promised—Anon! Why wait? You can have it now. Who cares that there might be a bigger price to pay in the long run. You want it now, don’t you? So I dredged up my past in Corporate America and twisted every experience into something useful.

Gwen:  Anon was published in June of 2011.  Since that time, we’ve seen a lot of change—or attempted change—directed at institutions.  I’m going to use Occupy Wall Street as an example here but there are others.  Do you think that readers can identify more with a story like this in the wake of economic and political turmoil than they would during a period of economic prosperity?  Did you have any of that in mind as you were writing the novel?

Peter: I was more interested in human nature. But it’s ironic that the “Occupy Wall Street” folks have taken up the word “Anon,” meaning anonymous, as a battle cry. The irony of that isn’t lost on me. I find it humorous. But the book Anon was really pro-individual and anti-establishment. It’s more counter-culture, in my humble estimation, than the “Occupy” movement. After all, the “Occupy” movement is just another organization, though clearly not as organized. Many are there just to feel like they belong to something, with no understanding of what they really stand for. That’s dangerous. I’m not anti-establishment, per se, but I do question groupthink. My views are humanistic and very pro-capitalism. And I do believe that win/win situations exist, as long as people are put first. If you have to kill thousands or bankrupt millions to make a profit, however, I’m not down with that.

Gwen:  What motivates you to tell stories, particularly one like Anon?  Many authors would take a concept like this and sterilize it, but I found it compelling because I could relate to so many of the themes within.  I suppose what I’m really asking here is… when you began writing Anon, what came first?  The characters?  The plot?  Tell us a little about how it developed.

Peter: I kind of hit that above. It was reading about Nazi Germany, following the banking crisis, and listening to Diane Chambers, one of my earliest crushes. Who can go wrong with that strange marriage of ideas, huh? The twins came before Rory, and I originally opened the book with them. It wasn’t working. I needed an impending evil, something we could see coming that she couldn’t. I knew Rory’s story, but he was going to come into the novel as something mysterious. That didn’t work either. So I opened the book with him, made it look like he was going to be the protagonist, then subverted the hell out of traditional structure. As soon as I made those decisions, I knew I’d cracked the code. I knew I had something original. While I was sad that Michelle didn’t get introduced for 15,000 words, the book benefited. It’s a strange book. Thank God it’s a strange book!

Gwen:  One of the things that I’ve always loved about your work, whether it be this novel or one of your other pieces, is your ability to write characters who manage to be both sympathetic and horrifying.  Your villains are rarely just villains and your heroes sometimes fall down on the job.  Let’s take Rory, for instance—did you plot out his journey through the course of the novel or did the changes in his personality and character develop organically?

Peter: Anon developed more organically than anything I’ve written. I created character profiles for everyone, then I let them determine direction. If I couldn’t channel them, I stepped away. I hit a roadblock at one point and abandoned the novel for two months. At another point, Anon was 150,000 words long and a big, fat mess. I had to work the book into a new shape, around 80,000 words, and take out all the parts that didn’t work. It was my first book, so I learned a lot writing it. Things come easier now. So glad I had that experience. For the record, I don’t like archetypes. I like people. If all your good guys wear white and all your bad guys wear black, I don’t want to read your book or watch your movie.

Gwen:  As a horror author, what frightens you personally?  I’ve noticed a lot of social and political themes in your work which is something that I personally find more terrifying than most monsters.  Do you feel the same?  Or is there something more mundane that you tap into when you write your novels?

Peter:  I’m not terrified of vamps or zombies, because, guess what, they don’t exist! I’m afraid of real things: crazy drivers, idiots with power, wild animals, and heights. I worry about heart disease and cancer and…you get the idea. I don’t worry about a zombie apocalypse.

Gwen:  Now if I understand right, Pete, the sequel in this series, Beyond Anon was one of those books that nearly didn’t get written.  That was surprising for me to discover as a reader since from the moment I put Anon down, I wanted to know more about what happened next.  What changed your mind?

Peter: Like I said earlier, I am a capitalist. Anon didn’t sell for the first six months it existed. How could I write a sequel for a potential readership of 50 people? Other things I was doing were starting to catch fire, so I thought Anon would be the forgotten first novel. I’m really glad I got to write the sequel, because it means the first book has readers. In fact, it’s my most widely read piece of work.

Gwen:  What was the most difficult thing about writing a sequel?

Peter:  Finding Michelle six years later. She was always going to be the focus of the sequel. But who was she? I didn’t start writing ‘til I found her, and I found her a lot sooner than I expected.

Gwen:  The thing that pulled me into Beyond Anon immediately was Michelle, your protagonist (who happens to be gay).  As a lesbian myself, I find it rare that I see my own feelings reflected so clearly in fiction, much less in fiction where the point of the story is not homosexuality.  I loved the way that you managed to give us a sense that sexuality was a part of Michelle’s life but not the whole of it.  Can you tell us a little about the challenges of writing a character who was dramatically different from yourself?  Or was she really that different?

Peter:  She’s a lot different than I am. I never went through anything remotely like what she did. So I had to consider who she was. I had to find her anger, and I had to embrace it. I consider myself an empath, so I enjoy looking at things through a new set of eyes. Getting into Michelle’s head was challenging and fun. I had to ask a lot of “what if?” questions and figure her out before I could write the book. Like I said, it all came quicker than I expected. I revisited Kevin Smith’s Chasing Amy a couple of times so I could avoid making the same mistakes he did. I love Michelle deeply. And I always knew that if I could find a way to love her without sexualizing her or playing out cheap male fantasies, I would succeed. I think I did.

Gwen:  I definitely feel that you did.

Did you or do you have any fear in telling Michelle’s story?  I know that there is often a perception that people outside of a particular class or group, particularly one of minority status, can’t tell their stories.  Personally, I disagree but what’s your take on it?

Peter: I think we all have to tell human stories. Michelle told me she was gay. I could ignore that revelation or explore it. I explored it. To ignore her wishes would have betrayed the character. And to turn the character into something cheap or tawdry because of the revelation would have missed the point. Strong gay characters are prevalent in romance fiction—as if they are only defined by rules of attraction. And when they are in other types of shows or movies or books, they are generally over sexualized. It’s important to note that I’m not a revolutionary. Joe R. Lansdale’s Hap & Leonard books showed me the way. Joe often leads, and young writers would do well to pay close attention to everything he does. Everything!

Gwen:  Michelle is also compelling for the way that she attacks not only Anon as a corporation but other social institutions.  There are a lot of themes woven into this novel and references to struggles that all of us are facing today (religious discord, gay rights, social justice)—tell us what inspired you to go deeper into some of these issues.

Peter:  I was working themes of organizational evil. It was all a natural progression. Ignorance and hatred, after all, are taught.

Gwen:  Now that you’ve closed the door on the Breedloves, what’s next on the horizon?

Peter: Several new books, short stories, and screenplays. I wrote a novel with Scott Bradley that’s coming soon from Ravenous Shadows. It’s called The Dark, and it has received positive advance reviews from many respected novelists and screenwriters. And Scott and I have written a slew of short stories that will appear soon in various anthologies, including John Skipp’s PSYCHOS, which also features work by Neil Gaiman, Ray Bradbury, Thomas Harris, and many others. Not too shabby, huh? I have a two year option on the screen adaptation of Rick Hautala’s Little Brothers, which I plan to write with Scott, and we’re still shopping our feature-length adaptation of Joe R. Lansdale’s “The Night They Missed the Horror Show,” endorsed by Joe. I’m also working with Eric Shapiro on a few projects that are top secret. And I have my next two solo novels outlined, as well as a couple of short novels with Scott, all of them waiting patiently for me.

Gwen:  If readers want to find out more about you and your work, what’s the best way for them to do so?

Peter: The best way to find out about my work is to buy a book and read it. If you’re not ready to buy, go to www.petergiglio.com. But, seriously, the Anon eBook is $2.99, less than the cost of a McDonald’s value meal or a fancy drink at Starbucks. I spent a year of my life writing it, not 20 seconds frying cheap mystery meat or frothing fattening cream and overpriced coffee.

[Editorial note: I'd like to add that while Peter raises a good point about the price and availability of his novels, you don't buy a Peter Giglio novel because it's cheap. You buy it because it's good.]

You can find Anon on Amazon in e-book and paperback format. The sequel, Beyond Anon, just came out today in paperback!

Free literary novel today & 6/8/12 – Sykosa

Readers of A Few Words may recall that some months ago, I posted an excerpt of a YA novel that received a lot of comment because of its “YA for 18+” marker. Sykosa fostered a lot of great conversation on my social networks, including two guest posts from the author Justin Ordoñez on “Defining the Book that Rejects Definition.”

Well, I’m very happy to report that Sykosa, is available on Amazon for free through June 8th.

I’d love to hear what others think, both of the novel and of the concept of defining YA by age. I think as authors further explore this genre, we’re going to see more conversation of this type occurring.