Jane Thomson's Blog: But I'm Beootiful!, page 12

What do you get if you cross Elizabeth Bennett with Jack the Ripper?

Whatever it is, you’d probably better not snub her at a party.

Lady Charlotte and the Dark Side, the sequel to Lady Charlotte’s Dilemma, has just been released with all the fanfare I can manage, to sink or swim among the billions of titles in the Amazon pond. It’s a Gothic mystery-romance, modelled along the lines of The Castle of Otranto, Dracula, The Woman in White and such-like – but with a sense of humour.

As we enter Charlotte’s world, our heroine has just accidentally drunk a vial of mysterious liquid containing the spirit of long-dead Queen, Anne Boleyn (a lesson to us all – always read the label!). On the bright side, she’s about to be married to Count Vladimir Saxe-Coburg Dragenhof, who’s promised to assist her with her dilemma. BUT as she prepares to say ‘I do’, a pale and devastatingly handsome stranger interrupts proceedings. Who is he – and what does he want with Charlotte – or rather, Anne? And why the sudden spate of grisly murders in the back alleys of London? Not that any of the victims will be much missed.

Anyway, both books are completely free on Amazon from 31 August to 3 September. If you do download a copy, I’d very much appreciate a review. It doesn’t have to be long – just positive (just kidding).

My sincere thanks go to Book Review Gal, who kindly reviewed Lady C and the Dark Side on her blog (and if you’d like to review it, or interview me, on your blog, I’m all yours and will happily rabbit on about anything at all. Right now – well let’s be honest, always – I’m a tart for publicity, and my secrets are yours for the asking.

If Jane Austen and Bram Stoker got together in the linen cupboard…

[image error]

They’d apologise profusely, dust themselves off, and be too embarrassed to ever acknowledge one another again in polite company. BUT…if, instead, they decided to write the Great Gothic Novel together…

This wouldn’t be it. But it might be SLIGHTLY similar. Lady Charlotte & the Dark Side is due to be released in five days, come rain or hail of vampyre bats. Don’t like vampyre novels? Ah, but this is different – strong feminist themes, almost zero gore, and…the genetic input of famed Victorian trash novelist, Lord Bulwer-Lytton, he of ‘It was a dark and stormy night…’ fame. He was my great grandfather (if I remember rightly) and is probably rolling in his grave right now.

Here’s an excerpt, if you’re curious. If you’d like a free review copy, let me know in the comments section:)

Original, fun, literate…and probably NOT available at a bookstore near you

Are you TIRED of trawling through the latest ‘FREE and 99 cents’ collection of utterly banal and appallingly edited indie novels?

So am I. I believe in indie novels. I believe in indie anything, really. Stick it to the big guys. But – how, from this deluge of stuff that (in a sudden guilt-induced rush of politeness) I’ll just say is not for me, do I find an indie novel that captures, stimulates and excites me? A novelistic equivalent, perhaps, of one of the bare-chested billionaires that all too often adorn the covers of these palpitating tomes.

Fellow-author (and, as it happens, brother) Peter Thomson and I were chatting about this very problem and we thought, wouldn’t it be nice to share some of the indie reads that, for us, stood out from the crowd. I thought we might do this on a monthly basis – and we’d very much welcome your input (with the one rule that you don’t recommend your own book).

So here’s a quick list of the indie beauties that caught our eye over the last while…

J. Zachary Pike’s Dark Profit Saga (two books so far: Orconomics and Son of a Liche). Pike takes the usual themes of reckless adventurers, malevolent forces and teeming monsters, marries them to Wall Street and watches the antics of resulting mutant offspring with glee and a certain savage irony. An excellent read for a rainy afternoon. Find out more

L. G. Estrella’s Unconventional Heroes series (three books and a side-story so far) are a great romp, from the pyromaniac elf to the cute teenage necromancer to the cake-loving eldritch thing from other dimensions. Engagingly whimsical. Find out more

Seven at Two Past Five by Tara Basi is a Kafka-esque, witty, weird and fascinating tale of Abi, an elderly button-maker who lives in Bed Bunk Coffin No 7. Laden with symbolism and whimsical irony, it follows Abi’s attempts to negotiate the justice system in order to be restored to her beloved button workshop. It’s amusing, frustrating and ultimately heart-warming – one of those books you’ll either ‘get’ or you won’t. Find out more

And honourable mention goes to…Alternative Theologies, a collection of short stories edited by Phyllis Irene Radford and Bob Brown. Basically, they’re all about God, or thereabouts. While the quality varies, some of the included authors are well worth getting to know. For instance, Heather Truett’s Counting Sunrises was rather lovely (I also like purple), Philip Hall’s Devine Justice made me laugh (after all, who better to argue his way out of Judgement Day than noted barrister Horatio St John Devine?), and Jane Yolen’s poems were well put together and sharply witty. I quote…

“If there is a God, and note

I am not taking a public stance,

He/She/They sure have too much time

On his/her/their hands”

You can find out more here.

Well, that’s August’s gorgeous indies for you – and if you do have any suggestions for September, do let me know in the comments!

Backdated guilt and other boomer bummers

To boomer bummers in a moment, but first…I’ve been thinking about the past a lot recently. I guess that’s what you do when you’re kinda old (as well as gardening, which I never thought I’d get into. Bloody hell – next thing you know I’ll be poring over recipes!!). Specifically, I was thinking about my dog Coffee – the first pet who was all my own. Kinda.

Right from the start I knew he had a sense of humour. He bounced up and down in his cage at the shelter and grinned and I thought, he’s the One! And then I took him home and realised why he was in the shelter in the first place. He was a Runner-away-er. NOTHING would keep him in. Not fence extensions, not barbed wire, nothing! Sometimes I’d catch him taking himself for a stroll and he’d look at me like ‘oops’ and make a run for it. When I managed to fling myself on him and collar him, he’d give this surprised squeak and then just – laugh. He wasn’t really ‘ mine’ of course – one living creature should never belong to another. He was his own person, and we were friends. So, anyway, I wrote a song about him.

So, to backdated guilt. My daughter’s been reprimanding me recently on the sins of the Boomers. She tells me her generation are massively cranky with ours because ‘we’ll never be able to afford a house’. That is, she will, because she’ll inherit mine, but she’s pissed off on behalf of those who don’t have home-owning parents (which is nice – guess that’s down to my great parenting).

It is weird to have – so I hear – a whole generation pissed at you for something you didn’t really have much say in. Ok, so I got myself a house. Wasn’t that what I was supposed to do? Can I help it if the price went up? And yeah, we’ve got climate change, but I didn’t vote for the cretins who are running the country! I feel like an aristo in the French revolution – I didn’t ask to be born a Boomer but I’m going to get my head chopped off anyway. 

Well hey. Maybe we’ll all get lined up against the wall when the Revolution comes…

For the hottest buzz you’ve ever had, try our Real Man experience!

“Alright folks, welcome to Friday Night at the Museum, and we sure hope each and every one of you has an amazing experience,” says Minerva, their guide for the evening.  “Now, just some ‘house-keeping’ before we get started. First up – your dates will probably seem much the same as you and me – but just remember, they’re not. There’s five hundred thousand years of evolution between Homo Sapiens and Homo Deus, and it counts. Second, in your brochure you’ll all find a brief list of what we like to call ‘triggers’. As long as you avoid those triggers, everything should be fine and dandy. And if you do slip up – don’t worry, you’re still absolutely safe. But here at the museum we’d like you to have the best experience possible this Friday night, so – just put aside ten minutes to study the leaflet, folks, if you will.”

Juno bends her head over the glossy leaflet, pretending to read, but it’s hard to take it all in. She’s too excited: a surge of electricity races through her circuits. Her eyes flash momentarily neon-green and her fingernails spark. Triggers…

“Before your date commences, please set surface power levels to below 30 watts. Your Homo Sapiens’ structure is fragile and delicate, despite his robust appearance, and he will not appreciate being incinerated.”

Juno has already adjusted her settings. She’s well aware that ancient skin is butterfly-thin, unlike her own alloy exo-casing.

“Ask, don’t tell, and speak softly, as you would to a favourite pet. Your Homo Sapien is easily intimidated, and a frightened HS is not a romantic HS.”

Juno studies the photo on the brochure. It’s a generic image – her own date won’t look quite like this – but he looks anything but fearful. Blue eyes (‘natural sea’ blue) stare out almost fiercely from beneath heavy brows, and the upper lip is raised in a slight snarl. The bulging pectorals bristle with fur: prehensile hands hover over his groin, which is encased in a pale blue material the brochure boasts is ‘genuine antique denim’. But then – so the small print informs her – this is the ‘cowboy’ model. She’s paid for the ‘miner’ experience, which is somewhat cheaper.

At last they are done with the formalities (which include, Juno notes, a signed form indemnifying the Museum against any and all contingencies). Minerva hands each of the twelve participants a swipe card which will enable them to enter their own ‘theatre’ of primitive romance. Juno notices the woman next to her adjusting her brassiere: the garment is uncomfortable but apparently indispensable to the ancient dating scene.

She places the card in its slot, and the door slides open silently, then closes behind her. She fingers the emergency commslink in her left elbow crease.

He’s sitting at the bar. His name – so she’s been told – is Bob, but it’s better if she pretends not to know that. The first thing she notices about Bob is his forearms. How thick and hairy and dirty they are! It has been centuries since the death of the last actual male, but even he – according to the records – looked nothing like this. Bob’s shorts hold his crotch in an iron grip: his muscular thighs spring out of them like girders. A dark and lusty froth tumbles over the scoop of his blue singlet, and his belly sweeps majestically over his crotch, a wave crashing on a savage shore.

“Hi,” says Juno nervously, softly, leaning on the bar.

Bob’s swamp-green gaze drops from her chest to her lap and then to her face. She’s glad she turned down the heat, or else right now – she’s certain – she’d be glowing red as a reactor core.

“Hi there, honey. What do they call yer?” Bob’s voice is pure coal. Juno would like to lay waste to him right there and then but Minerva has warned all of them that the HS male prefers to take the initiative. “You’ve paid for him,” the guide had explained, with a complicit smile, “but you want to let him think that he’s paid for you.” “Do you train them that way?” one of the participants had asked. “Nope – it’s innate,” Minerva had replied. For a primitive animal, Homo Sapiens is rather complicated.

“Juno.” She can’t resist. She reaches out to touch that powerful forearm. One huge hand shoots out and pins her tiny fingers against the skin. Juno is startled, but entranced.

“Cute name for a cute chick. So what do yer – ah – do, Juno?”

“Do?” For a moment she’s confused, then she remembers that of course, back then, the species performed ‘work’. “Oh, I’m a, um, secretary.”

“Yeah?” Bob’s gaze scans her chest again: she wonders if he likes it. All the women were issued with a pair before they came. Hers, she thinks, are rather nice. “Wanna beer?”

“Sure, Bob.”

By the end of the first hour, Juno feels a lot more relaxed. Her satin knee is touching Bob’s knobbly extrusion, and he’s holding her hand, stroking the back with a large horny finger. He’s already told her about the time he drove a B-double and got it stuck under an overhead bridge, and about the time a croc wandered into the compound pool and ate his best mate’s dog Blue. He’s asked Juno what a pretty girl like her was doing without a bloke: up at the mine, he says, the only pretty girl’s the boss’s parrot. It’s going well, but Juno is getting impatient. She didn’t spend two hundred megabits to talk about parrots, but to do – the thing. The authentic, primitive Thing that only an authentic, primitive Man can do. Juno puts a hand on Bob’s thigh.

“Where you staying?” he says, his mouth falling sideways in what Juno has been told is a ‘leer’.

“I don’t know…I’m new in town.” Juno winds a strand of her hair around her finger, as she’s seen in the old films.

“You wanna come up and see my digs?”

“Love to.” Juno’s voice is still soft and sweet, but she pulls a little too hard at Bob’s hand, jerking him off his stool. He flexes his biceps.

“Hold your horses, gorgeous, we’ll get there.”

Bob’s digs are as deliciously crude as he is himself. An unmade bed, a stove top with the remains of some ancient canned meal, a screen bearing the leaping images of other be-shorted men in striped uniforms chasing a ball. With barely a glance at all this, Juno flings herself on to the sweat-stained mattress. Bob collapses on top, fully dressed, and presses his beery, hirsute, tobacco-stained lips to hers. One hand squeezes her left chest, and a jolt of pure tingling energy goes straight to Juno’s pleasure centre, just as they promised it would.

Now Bob is pulling at her dress and she’s pulling at his shorts, and all the while he’s deep in her mouth, mining her throat like a rotating drill, plundering her resources, pushing and pounding, driving into the very core of her neural networks. Any moment now and Bob and she will strike that seam of liquid gold of which the women whisper, an explosion sending the amygdala into ecstatic overdrive…

“Take me now!” Juno roars, forgetting to keep it sweet and low. But it doesn’t matter to Bob, he’s ripping her clothes away like an earth-mover, nuzzling at her neck, muttering words from an ancient litany long forgotten by civilisation…”oh yeah, oh alright, you’re a filthy little…” Juno revels in it all. It’s a pagan rite, a descent into the wild animal roots of humanity from which she – yes, even Homo Deus – has ultimately sprung.  She thrusts and sighs, and then feels Bob’s full weight relax on to her, the belly spreading to encompass them both. After a moment, she realises that there is something not quite right.

She pushes at his head, now fallen into the hollow of her neck, and he gives a long, gape-mouthed groan. His lids droop into an intricate network of lines and channels: his fists are open like a baby’s.

“Bob?”

But Bob is done. Nothing Juno can do will wake him now: asleep, he is picturesque but useless for all practical purposes. She pulls a blanket up over his slumbering form, sheds the low-cut dress – there’s no need for it now – and pads back to the bar. The juke box in the corner is banging away: the smell of hops hangs like a haze in the air. They should have warned her about the beer, they really should have. But then, you get what you pay for, Juno reflected.

“Yes, well, that’s miners for you, I’m afraid. You should try a surf lifesaver,” suggests the mellifluous lady on the phone, when she rings to complain. “They’re a little more pricey but just as primitive….and they don’t drink as much.”

Like this short story? You can find more at www.fallaciousrose.com.

Old People Sex

Recently I joined a U3A (University of the Third Age class. (It’s this Aussie thing where retired experts on stuff share their knowledge for free with interested over-50s.)  Anyway I felt I just had to share this poem from my class, with the permission of the author (Sue Middlewood)…

Fiona said her adult children made a face

When Andrew entered her word

‘Old people sex!’ they cried.

‘Yukko!’

She laughs telling us this,

And with a knowing smile she’s silent.

The sex life of the over-60s is…

Private.

Nearly never in Hollywood,

Scenes of wrinkles and flab

But the glamorous are at it

Perfectly.

If Fiona had spoken she may have said

The under-the-covers antics had merged with household chores.

The frenzy calmed, there’s space for loving-kindness.

But she didn’t say, because old people sex is…

Classified

I’ve been so immersed in Regency Gothic literature that I haven’t had time for anything much else, except…this. It’s a breakup song about those moments when you’ve talked about everything for hours and there’s nothing left to do but drink down that…bitter blue. (NB, it doesn’t reflect my state of mind Right Now – it’s more like a poem about where we were, once upon a time.)

 

 

Ten ways to tell if you’re a woman

Lately I joined a feminist writers’ group, and the conversation drifted – as it does – towards the crucial topic of What is a Woman? I don’t think I’m betraying any secrets here if I say that opinions differed. We’re all women, we know we’re women – but how do we know you’re a woman?

Generally, a woman has two XX chromosomes, resulting in (among other things) a vagina, tits, and the capacity (in theory) to give birth to live young. Ok….but suppose you’re infertile (I’m not joking – that makes lots of women feel ‘unwomanly’) or, more controversially, you don’t have the chromosomes or equipment but you still ‘feel’ like a woman? What then?
You’re brighter than your male partner (if you’ve got one). I know, it sounds sexist. It IS sexist. Put it down to my currently single and sour outlook on life. But look at it this way, it’s just evolution. Hunting is pretty straightforward – you need brawn. Juggling relationships in the tribe so you and your kids end up with enough steak on your fork, that takes brains.
You often want to kill people, but you rarely do. This might be just a function of culturally-induced sissiness, but women can generally think of a number of options before they thump you. Sulk, overcook the steak, max out your credit card, sleep with your best friend…only once all this has failed will a true woman resort to violence, and then, it’s usually poison. Poisoned people don’t thump you back.
You have an acute sense of priorities. A man will give himself a heart attack in the pursuit of status, he’ll dump his babies (if necessary) in 23 hour a day childcare (often called a ‘stay-at-home mum’) in order to one day sit at the head of the conference table. A woman will at least weigh it up first.
At times, you’ll pretend you can’t do things, so that someone else will do them. Like changing tyres, inspecting rat-infested roof cavities and mucking around under engines. This is called Strategic Helplessness, and it’s double-edged (see below).
At times, other people will pretend you can’t do things. Personally, I think this is a way of spiking the competition (see 2). A woman can’t manage a farm on her own, go to bars unattended, sleep with men on the first date, or run a country. When asked why, they will say ‘it’s the system’.  Sometimes, a real woman will say ‘fuck the system’.
You’ll be tempted to get whatever painful and humiliating treatment is currently prescribed for people who want to be Totally Feminine. In one of these episodes, I once got a bikini wax.  Sometimes, you will see these temptations for what they are – a distraction from the fact that you don’t need to do anything at all to be female. You just are.
At times, you’ll find yourself according a superficial respect to the male of the species ‘oh, dear me, you must know a lot! how strong you are!’ while simultaneously thinking ‘what a dickhead. Wonder if he’ll offer to pay?’ Sometimes, you’ll cast aside this ploy and be called a ‘ball-breaker’.
You’ll be told (by people who want your money) that shoes are your consuming passion. Sometimes, you’ll give in and get a pair. They will cripple you for life, and it will serve you right.
You’ll believe that a woman has to be pretty, witty, sweet and sexy to get herself a man. You’ll eventually realise that men are as easy to catch as nits,. Sometimes, you’ll decide you don’t want one anyway (see 2), and sometimes, this will be because you are gay. Sometimes, it won’t.

Where do you stand on the woman question? Is the above a load of sexist drivel? To be honest, I look forward to the day when the quintessential marker of being a woman is bravery, self-reliance, competence and spit-in-your-eye toughness…

And – speaking of the ability to have kids – here’s my latest song on Rose Sings Badly (a celebration of my beautiful live young).

 

Imagine you’ve been kidnapped by a mad scientist…

He sticks a bag over your head, knocks you out, and takes you away to his secret island, where he pins you down on a lab bench and…

Takes your humanity away, one item at a time. First, he takes your opposable thumbs (just cuts them off. Without anaesthetic.) Then he deprives you of the power of speech (perhaps by plying you with alcohol. Who knows.) And then, he takes away your empathy for other humans. Now you don’t care what’s happening to the guy on the next lab table…aside from thinking he’d probably taste nice with gravy.

One by one, he takes away all those special qualities that make you human, until you’re…what? When exactly do you become ‘not’ human? When he slips you out of your skin and gives you scales instead? When he excises that weird bit in your brain that enables you to sense a higher power (one that has your welfare very much in mind)? When…you can’t plan beyond lunch time? When you can’t understand Schopenhauer? (I can’t understand Schopenhauer.)

If you think you’re in a tight spot, spare a thought for the bat in the next lab. Bit by bit, he’s having his batness removed, all those things that make him so much more special than a mere human. Soon he’ll be nothing but a…what is it when a bat loses his batness?

I’ve been thinking about these things because I recently wrote a story on the theme of ‘humanity’ (and here it is), exploring just what it is that makes us human, and whether there is any essential difference between us and the other animals. I don’t believe there is – other than the fact that we belong to this species of mammal, and not that. A dog, after all, is a dog, no matter what – unless of course you cross him with a chicken (in which case, you might get a dick?). The essential quality of dogness is…being a dog. He speaks in ‘bark’. He thinks about bones more than Schopenhauer. He worships you, rather than God. He has thoughts, feelings, dreams that we will never understand – unless it’s through the lens of being a mammal, just like he is.

While we are being anthropomorphic, he’s being caninomorphic. And wouldn’t you know it, our guesses about each other are mostly right, because we’re both mammals, and mammalian minds think alike.

What do you think?

Is there a safe way to travel in time?

Let’s face it, most times, most places – are damned dangerous! The list of where, and when, I wouldn’t like to be is an EXTREMELY long one. Syria. Saudi Arabia. Alabama. The Crusades. The Black Plague. Back at primary school.

And as for bringing the past to life – well, they tried that in Jurassic Park, and look how that went. 

However, turns out that there IS a safe way to time travel – and it’s reading historical novels. I for instance really like to immerse myself in medieval England – but I have a strong suspicion that if I’d been around then I would’ve ended up tied to a post with faggots piled up around my feet, starting to feel uncomfortably warm.

So why am I blathering on about these things? Because as part of OWSCyCon 2019 Historical Fiction, I’ve been asked to write a post about how I bring the past to life in my historical fiction. You might know that among other things I write Regency Gothic Something or Other (honestly I’m not sure what to call my genre, I never am!). My published book is Lady Charlotte’s Dilemma , about a well-brought up girl who is ‘challenged’, let’s say, by suddenly becoming a vampire. I’m currently writing the sequel, Lady Charlotte and the Dark Side.

So, well, vampires are NOT really historical – but Lady Charlotte and her world are as authentic as I can make them. They speak authentic Regency ‘Pray bring me the hartshorn, Sarah – my palpitations!” They do what Regency people do – worry about their reputations, look down on ‘vulgar persons’, get hung up on their virginity. They live in a real world (mostly Surrey and London),with real people (the Prince Regent, who’s currently falling madly in love with my heroine), read real books (John Polidori’s The Vampyre), dress in ‘damped muslin’ (the Regency’s answer to a wet t-shirt), drive phaetons, and wear their hair ‘a la Grecque’.

I probably slip up plenty – but it’s basically a Regency universe. With vampires, and even they tend to observe the social conventions. They may suck your blood – but they’re unquestionably genteel (except for Bess, who’s an Elizabethan tart).

So without further ado, I’d like to introduce you to my colleague K.M. Polhkamp, who also writes historical fiction, set in the Tudor era! Hop over to her blog and check out her take on the subject. A quick author bio is below.

Quick Bio: K.M. Pohlkamp is a blessed wife to the love of her life, proud mother of two young children, and a NASA Mission Control flight controller. A Cheesehead by birth, she now resides in Texas and writes to maintain her sanity. Her other hobbies include ballet and piano. K.M. has come a long way from the wallpaper and cardboard books she created as a child. Her debut novel, Apricots and Wolfsbane, was awarded the Editor’s Choice designation by the Historical Novel Society among other accolades and awards. The unpredictable tale follows a female poison assassin in Tudor England and the sequel releases fall 2019. K.M. can be found at www.kmpohlkamp.com or @KMPohlkamp.
 

 

Meet Devorah Fox!

I’d like to introduce Devorah Fox, fantasy author extraordinaire, as part of the OWSCyCon Fantasy Blog Tour 2019. As part of the Tour, fantasy authors are asked to write about what makes their world, or the world of another author unique. Each of them has come up with very different answers which reflect their writing processes, their research methods, and their views on world building. We hope you find these insights interesting, and that they maybe give you some new things to think about when you pick up a new book, or even start writing your own.

After reading this interview, be sure to check out the responses from our other fantastic writers: https://owscycon.ourwriteside.com/fantasy-events-at-cycon/fantasy-blog-tour-what-makes-an-authors-world-unique/

What Makes My World Unique? by Devorah Fox

What makes my author’s world unique? I’d answer by saying that it isn’t particularly.

Although this is Fantasy fiction, the worlds that I created—King Bewilliam’s domain and the lands to which he travels, Lady Blackwing’s hometown and workplace—are grounded in reality.

At first, that wasn’t my idea. When I set out to tell King Bewilliam’s story I had a contemporary tale to tell. However, the story wanted to be told in a once-upon-a-time fashion, set in a time of kings, queens, and knights. Who was I to argue with the Muse?

Never much of a History student it wasn’t as though years of education equipped me to write about the Middle Ages. At first, I was simply going to make stuff up. After all, this was Fantasy fiction, right?

Then I was writing a scene where the king takes something out of his pocket and I found myself asking, “Did they have pockets in those days?”

Finding out if they did was the beginning of what amounted to extensive research. I found that I couldn’t write a sentence without knowing the answers to questions such as, “Did they wear that? “Did they eat that?” “Did they have that technology?” As a result, his world could have existed.

Yes, there are imaginary beings in King Bewilliam’s universe such as dragons, ginormous sea behemoths, and gryphons. They are challenges that he must meet, obstacles that he must remove from his path to get where he wants to go. And isn’t that how life is? When such challenges appear in our lives, they seem monstrous. We have to ask ourselves how committed we are to reaching our goal. We have to dig deep to find the strength to overcome those obstacles. That’s King Bewilliam’s story, and that’s what readers get out of it. In his trials and tribulations, they find echoes of their own. It’s Fantasy fiction, it’s the Middle Ages, but it’s all relatable.

Similarly, my urban contemporary superhero could be someone you know. Mercedes goes to college part-time, works part-time in a coffeehouse, and lives in an apartment complex much like any other. So when a strange turn of fate transforms her into Lady Blackwing it seems perfectly reasonable. And that was what I wanted to show. The opportunities to step off our well-plotted path often come about unexpectedly. Do we fight them and cling to our original plan or do we accept the dare and take a chance on learning that we have strengths and talents of which we were unaware?

What happens to King Bewilliam and Lady Blackwing could happen to anyone. Well, maybe not the dragon …

More about Devorah Fox

“What if?” Those two words all too easily send Devorah Fox spinning into flights of fancy. Bestselling author of The Bewildering Adventures of King Bewilliam epic historical fantasy series including “The Redoubt,” voted one of 50 Self-Published Books Worth Reading 2016, and ”The Lost King,” awarded the All Authors Certificate of Excellence. She also wrote “Detour,” ranked in the Top Ten Thrillers in Preditor/Editors Readers’ Choice Poll and “The Zen Detective,” #34 of 50 Best Indie Books 2017. She co-authored the contemporary thriller, “Naked Came the Sharks,” with Jed Donellie, contributed to award-winning Fantasy anthologies and has several Mystery Mini Short Reads to her name. Born in Brooklyn, New York, she now lives on the Texas Gulf Coast with rescued tabby cats … and a dragon named Inky. Visit the “Dee-Scoveries” blog at http://devorahfox.com. Sign up for the free e-mail newsletter and get a link to a free gift, http://eepurl.com/LrZGX

Meet Devorah Online

OWSCyCon2019 Author Booth: https://owscycon.ourwriteside.com/forums/topic/devorah-fox-3/
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/DevorahFoxAuthor
Twitter: http://twitter.com/devorah_fox Author Blog: http://devorahfox.com
Get the Latest News by Joining Devorah’s Newsletter http://eepurl.com/LrZGX

Learn More About the OWS CyCon 2019 Event

CyCon is the biggest online book event of the year, bringing together authors and readers from all over the world for an entire weekend of book-related fun. Between the organizers, and 230+ writers, you’ll be able to:

· view live (and recorded discussions),

· listen to samples of their stories,

· vote in the various genre tournaments,

· browse the author booths, and

· discover some amazing books and writers.

We hope you enjoy this event as much as we enjoy bringing it to you. For more information, and links to all of the activities, visit us at: https://owscycon.ourwriteside.com/about-ows-cycon/

You never know, you may just find your next best read!