Samantha Bryant's Blog, page 71
December 19, 2015
Guest Post: Lunar Reality and Lunar Fiction: AmyBeth Inverness
It's my great privilege and pleasure to introduce you to AmyBeth Inverness, a friend and fellow writer. I hope you enjoy her guest post! -SB______________________
Lunar Reality and Lunar Fiction
AmyBeth Inverness
I began writing stories about the moon back in 2013 when the Liftport Group decided to put out a monthly magazine about their endeavors to build a space elevator, first on the Moon, and later on Earth. Although I could not contribute to my friends’ efforts either scientifically or financially, I could write stories about a thriving society on the Moon in the near future.
The magazine lasted less than a year, but my stories about Luna were well-received. They sat on a shelf for a while, and now a new story comes out from Dingbat Publishing with every full moon.
The research I do for these stories is never-ending. I often become immersed in a thread of some fascinating detail I find, such as my hometown hero Vance Brand being in the back-up crew for Apollo 15. While researching an article about stuff the astronauts threw around on the Moon I discovered this list of man-made objects that are on the moon. Most of it is what one would expect; crashed satellites, jettisoned equipment, and mementos. Then there are the one hundred two-dollar-bills that Apollo 15 left behind. I have no idea why.
Anyone who has seen the Tom Hanks movie about Apollo 13 knows about Gene Kranz and his vests. The astronauts from several missions also played pranks on each other, such as inserting pictures of scantily-clad women in with the official documents for their peers to find. I was also interested to learn that, at the time the memorials to fallen astronauts and cosmonauts were placed, there were several cosmonauts whose deaths were still being kept secret by the Soviet Union.
Monday, December 14, 2015 is the 43rd anniversary of the day we left the moon. Eugene A. Cernan and Harrison H. Schmitt lifted off the lunar surface at 10:54:37 p.m.
We haven’t been back since.
All of these pieces of information, both trivial and historical, feed my imagination when I’m writing my stories. Although I leave the exact details of humanity’s return to the Moon purposely vague, I always strive to ensure that any real history is honored. I keep a bottle of little blue pills on my desk just to make sure the SciFi stays hard enough.
In The Cities of Luna, the Apollo sites are all world heritage sites. Locals and tourists alike visit the museums and tour the locations, which are carefully preserved. When I discover details such as the presence of water or other resources in a particular place, or the seismic activity on the Moon, it goes into a story.
Yet the stories are about the people. I’m not telling you about the moonquakes, I’m telling you what the people do when there’s a moonquake. I’m not describing how the orbital elevator works, I’m telling you how the people use it and how it affects their lives. I’m not lecturing about the two weeks of sunlight and two weeks of darkness, but the length of the lunar day definitely impacts the Loonie’s lives.
The next few decades will be interesting ones. Although I may not ever be able to travel to the Moon, that is a distinct possibility for my children and grandchildren. I can write the stories. My progeny will live them.
________________________________
A writer by birth, a redhead by choice, and an outcast of Colorado by temporary necessity, AmyBeth
Inverness is a creator of Speculative Fiction and Romance. She can usually be found tapping away at her laptop, writing the next novel or procrastinating by posting a SciFi Question of the Day on Facebook and Google Plus. When she’s not writing, she’s kept very busy making aluminum foil hats and raising two energetic kids and many pets with her husband in their New England home.
You can find her on Facebook, Google Plus, and Twitter @USNessie or check out her Amazon Author Page.
AmyBeth's been very busy lately! Her Urban Fantasy novella The House on Paladin Court is available in electronic format at most of the usual e-book outlets. She has a weird little SciFi short story called The Immersion of the Incorporeum in the Biblical Legends Anthology Deluge. A new short story from The Cities of Luna is released with every full moon. The Day Lorinda Flew, about a little girl with special needs who believes that chickens, in the low gravity of the moon, can fly if they only have the right encouragement, came out in November. The next story is Sleighride, about a dad visiting the moon's North Pole. Since December's full moon is on Christmas, Sleighride will be out a little early. It will be released on December 19, which is the day humanity left the moon.
Lunar Reality and Lunar Fiction
AmyBeth Inverness
I began writing stories about the moon back in 2013 when the Liftport Group decided to put out a monthly magazine about their endeavors to build a space elevator, first on the Moon, and later on Earth. Although I could not contribute to my friends’ efforts either scientifically or financially, I could write stories about a thriving society on the Moon in the near future.
The magazine lasted less than a year, but my stories about Luna were well-received. They sat on a shelf for a while, and now a new story comes out from Dingbat Publishing with every full moon.
The research I do for these stories is never-ending. I often become immersed in a thread of some fascinating detail I find, such as my hometown hero Vance Brand being in the back-up crew for Apollo 15. While researching an article about stuff the astronauts threw around on the Moon I discovered this list of man-made objects that are on the moon. Most of it is what one would expect; crashed satellites, jettisoned equipment, and mementos. Then there are the one hundred two-dollar-bills that Apollo 15 left behind. I have no idea why.
Anyone who has seen the Tom Hanks movie about Apollo 13 knows about Gene Kranz and his vests. The astronauts from several missions also played pranks on each other, such as inserting pictures of scantily-clad women in with the official documents for their peers to find. I was also interested to learn that, at the time the memorials to fallen astronauts and cosmonauts were placed, there were several cosmonauts whose deaths were still being kept secret by the Soviet Union.
Monday, December 14, 2015 is the 43rd anniversary of the day we left the moon. Eugene A. Cernan and Harrison H. Schmitt lifted off the lunar surface at 10:54:37 p.m.
We haven’t been back since.
All of these pieces of information, both trivial and historical, feed my imagination when I’m writing my stories. Although I leave the exact details of humanity’s return to the Moon purposely vague, I always strive to ensure that any real history is honored. I keep a bottle of little blue pills on my desk just to make sure the SciFi stays hard enough.
In The Cities of Luna, the Apollo sites are all world heritage sites. Locals and tourists alike visit the museums and tour the locations, which are carefully preserved. When I discover details such as the presence of water or other resources in a particular place, or the seismic activity on the Moon, it goes into a story.
Yet the stories are about the people. I’m not telling you about the moonquakes, I’m telling you what the people do when there’s a moonquake. I’m not describing how the orbital elevator works, I’m telling you how the people use it and how it affects their lives. I’m not lecturing about the two weeks of sunlight and two weeks of darkness, but the length of the lunar day definitely impacts the Loonie’s lives.
The next few decades will be interesting ones. Although I may not ever be able to travel to the Moon, that is a distinct possibility for my children and grandchildren. I can write the stories. My progeny will live them.
________________________________
A writer by birth, a redhead by choice, and an outcast of Colorado by temporary necessity, AmyBeth
Inverness is a creator of Speculative Fiction and Romance. She can usually be found tapping away at her laptop, writing the next novel or procrastinating by posting a SciFi Question of the Day on Facebook and Google Plus. When she’s not writing, she’s kept very busy making aluminum foil hats and raising two energetic kids and many pets with her husband in their New England home.You can find her on Facebook, Google Plus, and Twitter @USNessie or check out her Amazon Author Page.
AmyBeth's been very busy lately! Her Urban Fantasy novella The House on Paladin Court is available in electronic format at most of the usual e-book outlets. She has a weird little SciFi short story called The Immersion of the Incorporeum in the Biblical Legends Anthology Deluge. A new short story from The Cities of Luna is released with every full moon. The Day Lorinda Flew, about a little girl with special needs who believes that chickens, in the low gravity of the moon, can fly if they only have the right encouragement, came out in November. The next story is Sleighride, about a dad visiting the moon's North Pole. Since December's full moon is on Christmas, Sleighride will be out a little early. It will be released on December 19, which is the day humanity left the moon.
December 18, 2015
This story was originally written as part of the Mocha Me...
This story was originally written as part of the Mocha Memoirs Season's Readings tour. I'm proud of this short story featuring Patricia O'Neill, the resident Grinch of the Menopausal Superheroes universe. I hoped the story would find more readers than it it did, so here it is again for the Deja Vu Blog Tour!
If you enjoy it, you can see more of Patricia and the other heroines in Going Through the Change . The sequel, Change of Life, is due out from Curiosity Quills in April 2016.
O Scaly Night
Patricia hadn't planned on being alone for Christmas. It just sort of ended up that way. She'd planned on staying home for a quiet few days with Suzie, until Suzie got the strong-arm to join the rest of the clan Up East. She wasn't ready to take Patricia with her, she said, and Patricia tried to seem disappointed about that to save Suzie's feelings. In reality, she was relieved. She wasn't looking forward to the whole in-laws thing. She'd avoided it for the first fifty-eight years of her life and could happily do so for all her remaining years. Heck, she wasn't even used to being with Suzie herself yet.
She didn't spare a thought for her own family. What remained of it was spread out and not what anyone would describe as close. In fact, some of it was downright contentious.
Jessica was doing the newlywed Christmas with Walter, probably embarrassing the heck out of her boys with mistletoe and the whole shebang. Sure, they'd invited her to come by, but she wouldn't be going. God no. She'd rather stab herself in the eye with a fork. Same with Leonel and David, for different reasons. Things were already tense between the two of them. She definitely wasn't going to walk into that family drama. No way. No how.
She didn't let herself think about Cindy either. It was time to let that friendship go and admit that she might never have known her best friend as well as she thought she had. Besides, Cindy never celebrated Christmas much anyway, saving her holiday energy for Chinese New Year's.
So, here it was, nearly midnight on Christmas Eve. Patricia had tried holiday movies, one cheesy and one heartfelt, and popcorn, but it all seemed to leave a bad taste in her mouth. She eyed her phone, but the screen stayed stubbornly black. Suzie would probably try to call later, but, even if she did, Patricia knew their conversation would be stilted and awkward. If she called at all, it would be late, after the rest of the family had finally gone to bed. And Patricia had no idea what she'd say.
Patricia looked out the window. The city of Springfield was awash in lights. Some of the buildings had done up full holiday displays and she could see the flashing reds and greens from across the river. Looking at it, she felt she had to get out. Her spacious condo suddenly felt as tight as a closet and she needed air.
She pulled on her long coat and stepped out into the night. It wasn't supposed to snow, but the air was crisp and felt good against her skin, clean and fresh. She realized she hadn't been outside the entire day. No wonder she felt so cooped up. Indiana farmland girls like her needed a daily quota of fresh air. She got weird when she spent too much time inside.
Shoving her hands in her pockets, she headed for the pond on the other side of the complex. There was a wooden bridge over the man-made watering hole, and it was a pleasant place to stand and look at the water, especially late at night when most of the inhabitants of the complex were sound asleep. Patricia often went there when she couldn't sleep.
The water was very still. The fountain was turned off for the season and there was no wind to speak of. The lake was probably quite shallow, but the way the surface was reflecting the surrounding buildings and streetlights made it seem miles deep. Patricia wished she had brought some bread to toss out for the koi. The ducks and geese were already gone for the season. It might have been nice to see another living thing.
Leaning against the railing, she turned and surveyed the buildings around her. There were five identical buildings. The condos on this side all had patios or balconies facing towards the lake. Patricia's own apartment had a big window at the end of a hall that afforded her a glimpse of the lake, but she preferred the view from the wall-sized windows in the living room overlooking the city. The lake, in her opinion, was better enjoyed up close.
A breeze came up and Patricia let her scales rise on her neck and cheeks. Her alter ego was less sensitive to the cold than she was. Patricia hadn't quite figured out why that was, but it was helpful sometimes. She was careful to limit her transformation, though. No reason to ruin a good coat by letting her spikes come through.
As her scales came up, her vision changed a little as well. Her lizard-eyes could see better in the night than her human ones. She spotted the man standing on the other side of the lake. She hadn't noticed him before, and, so far, it didn't look like he had spotted her. He was standing under a small tree, one of the ones that flowered white in the springtime, but was bare this time of year. He had his back to the lake and Patricia and seemed to be watching one of the apartment windows. She couldn't have explained why, but Patricia felt there was something off about the guy. She watched him more closely.
In the space of the few minutes she watched, he began and abandoned six cigarettes. Each time he threw the half-smoked cigarette into the grass and twisted his foot on it, moving like he had made up his mind and was going to go do something. Each time, he took a step, then stopped, swung his arms back and forth a few times and retreated to the space under the tree. Patricia began to walk around the lake. She wanted to be within reach, just in case. She continued to watch him as she walked, keeping her steps light and as quiet as she could, glad that her coat was black and wouldn't show up well in the darkness. He never turned.
By the light of his next cigarette, she was able to make out some details of his face and appearance. She made note of them, practicing better observation as they were training her to do at the Department. He was thirty-five or forty years old by her estimation. White, with dark brown or black hair, worn long enough that it stuck out in wings beneath his knit cap. He had an indeterminate beard, one that could mean he was just a few days unshaven or that he kept his facial hair at that Miami Vice level that had been so popular for a while. His coat was nice, but frayed at the cuffs and missing a few buttons, so that could mean he had fallen on harder times or just that he loved the coat and wore it even though he should be replacing it. He was broad in the shoulders, but not particularly tall. Patricia was sure that if she stood beside him, she'd tower over him by at least four inches.
The man hadn't done anything except for seem tense and smoke some cigarettes, but Patricia still felt that he bore watching. Maybe she was just bored and looking for something to do. Or maybe there was trouble. Watching him repeat the cigarette-decision-dance two more times, she grew frustrated with waiting. Patience had never been her strong suit.
Pulling in her scales, she walked up to the guy, being careful to crunch a few leaves along the way, so she wouldn't sneak up on him. "Can I bum a smoke?" she asked. Patricia didn't smoke, but she thought she could fake it, at least as a way to start a conversation. The man jumped. "Sorry. I didn't mean to scare you," she offered, hands spread. The man pulled out the pack of cigarettes and handed her one without comment. Patricia played with it in her fingers for a moment. "Can't sleep?"
The man turned and looked at her then. Face to face, Patricia could see that he was tired. His eyes were red and watery and the circles under his eyes were deep enough to suggest more than one sleepless night. His eyes flicked over her quickly. Patricia was sure he had categorized her as a harmless middle aged woman, too old to flirt with and unlikely to do him damage. Little did he know. "Yeah," he finally said.
"Which one is yours?" she asked, gesturing at the windows in front of them. "I'm across the lake, myself." She hoped it sounded like a regular nosy-neighbor kind of question. She also hoped he had a ready answer. He didn't. The hesitation wasn't long, but the sigh that accompanied it spoke volumes.
"If you don't mind, I don't want to talk about it." His voice was even, though the words were clipped. Patricia didn't like the tension she saw in his jaw.
She laid a hand on his arm. He jumped back as if she had stung him. "You sure? You seem like a man with something on his mind. I can be a good listener." Or at least she thought she could fake it long enough to figure out if someone was in danger here.
"You got kids?" he asked.
"Me? Hell, no."
He laughed in a way that showed he didn't find it funny. He lit another cigarette, the last in the pack. He didn't seem to have noticed that Patricia wasn't lighting hers. "Maybe that's for the best, sometimes. Me, I got four of them. Up there." He gestured at a second story balcony just to the right of the place where they stood.
Patricia followed his finger. She flipped up the collar just slightly to hide her cheeks and brought up her scales again. She really only wanted the night vision, but, at least so far, she couldn't get the eyes without the facial scales. She'd need to work on that some more. Once she could see, she could see some signs of trouble. The glass door that led to the balcony was taped, as if it had been broken and hastily patched by someone without the tools or skills to do it right. A jagged impact was evident in the glass. It looked like the glass had been punched from the inside. "What happened to the door?" she asked.
The man looked her way and Patricia took a step backwards into the shadows while she schooled her face into its normal, middle-aged woman aspect. "I think he hits them," the man said, his voice bleak as the gray afternoon had been.
"Damn." She thought it might be something like that, but she had so wanted to be wrong. She'd seen this story more than once, and not just on the evening news. She remembered her fourth stepfather, the one she'd had arrested. Her mother never forgave her for it. But even at sixteen, Patricia had no tolerance for bullies. He'd bruised her littlest sister, gripping her arm so hard it left finger marks. Of course, they both said it was "just an accident" and that he'd "been drinking" like any of that made it even remotely okay. She wasn't going to let that man hurt one of the littler kids worse before she did something about it. She wouldn't let that happen now either. "What's the apartment number?"
"Sixteen B," he said.
"Is he in there?"
"I think so."
"And the mother and kids?"
He shook his head. "At her mother's. They won't be back until morning."
Patricia smiled. The man gasped. "What's wrong with your face?"
Patricia smiled again, her scales filling in fully. "This is the face of justice." She took off her coat and tossed it over a nearby bench, then sat down and took off her shoes. The man just stared at her as she loped off across the lawn and jogged up the steps.
Patricia, as drawn by Charles C. DowdA few second later, she was standing in front of sixteen B, listening. She could hear a television playing. Taking a moment to concentrate and focus, she brought out her full transformation. She heard the cloth ripping as her spikes came out and tore up the back of her shirt, but the top still held together well enough to keep her covered. She almost never wore anything anymore that wouldn't. Raising one taloned hand, she knocked on the door. She was tempted to joke, "Avon Calling," but she knew it was just adrenaline making her giddy.Through the door, she heard some muffled cursing and heavy footsteps as someone moved to the door. "What do you want?" the man said as he threw the door open. Patricia didn't give him time to react to the sight of her. She place one hand on the door and one on the man's chest, flinging him back as she pushed the door open, then slamming the door closed behind her.
The man landed on his butt in the middle of the rug. His eyes grew wide as he took in Patricia. She knew that look. She'd seen it on many different faces in the year since her transformation took place. It was part disbelief and part fear. "What are you?" The man stuttered as he crawled away and got to his hands and knees in an attempt to stand.
Patricia leaped at him, knocking him onto his back, then standing with a heavy, taloned foot on his chest. "Me? I'm your worst nightmare. A woman who fights back."
The man tried to sit up, but she didn't give him a chance. Using the new moves she had learned in training, she rolled him over and hauled him up, tugging his arms behind his back so he was held low and awkwardly, unable to quite get his balance. She duck-walked him to the balcony door, shoving his head against the doorframe while she shoved the broken door aside. She wanted to make sure the father of these children got to see what happened here. She pushed the man so his torso fell over the railing, then let go of his arms and picked him up by his legs, so that he flailed into open air. He'd be fine if he didn't struggle too much. He tried to scream, but threw up instead.
"You like to hit people who don't hit back, don't you?" The man didn't answer her. He just sort of groaned. She lifted him a inch or two higher. "I asked you a question."
"They made me mad," he said. Patricia nearly let him fall then, but she didn't really want to make the family deal with a corpse and the police.
Instead, she pulled him back and let him fall into a heap on the balcony. "You know what makes me mad?" He didn't answer, though he seemed to be gathering himself for an attack. Patricia took a ready stance, just in case he really was that stupid. "Men who think that violence makes them men." Just as she'd suspected, he charged her, telegraphing his move as he clumsily got back into a crouching position, then hurling himself at her knees. She stepped aside, letting him collide with the doorframe. There was a crack. Patricia wasn't sure if it were the man or the doorframe that cracked but it didn't matter. The man was howling on the floor at her feet.
"Come on, bud. You've got a note to write and some packing to do."
An hour later, there was a note on the table, held down with a water glass. The handwriting was shaky, but legible. It was full of apologies, and a promise not to come back. It was a promise he'd keep. Patricia had taken his driver's license, just in case she needed to find him.
By three o'clock, Patricia and the man she'd found by the lake had managed to patch the broken door well enough to hold for a few days. When they had locked the door and replaced the extra key in the flower pot outside, they went back down to the water's edge and stood looking at the water together. Patricia could feel the man's incredulous gaze on her, but she didn't turn to look at him. She handed him back the cigarette she had never smoked. It was still inside her coat pocket. "Merry Christmas," she said, then finished her walk around the lake and headed for home. She might have something to say to Suzie after all, if she called. ________________________________
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December 16, 2015
On Uncles and Holidays
My Monday Classics book club read Dylan Thomas’s A Child’s Christmas in Wales as our December selection. If you’ve not read it, you should. It’s very brief. Won’t take you long at all. I think it’s best aloud. Dylan Thomas always plays well aloud. If you wish you can even listen to him read it:
Like most things by Dylan Thomas, it is beautiful and lyric and full of made up hyphenated phrases that seem like they shouldn’t make sense, but are perfect in their descriptions.
“All the Christmases roll down towards the two-tongued sea, like a cold and headlong moon bundling down the sky that was our street; and they stop at the rim of the ice-edged, fish-freezing waves, and I plunge my hands in the snow and bring out whatever I can find. In goes my hand into that wool-white bell-tongued ball of holidays resting at the rim of the carol-singing sea, and out come Mrs. Prothero and the firemen.”
It’s heart-true, even when it doesn’t quite make sense. On reading it, I felt enveloped in holiday memories. Family parties of my own childhood, full of uncles and aunts and cousins and mischief. Thomas’s uncles, like mine, were large men, in front parlors, with new cigars or sitting in front of fires with loosened buttons.
It’s been a rough year for uncles in my family. I’ve already lost one. My husband has recently lost one, as well. Another has just been diagnosed with stage four cancer. I guess we’re to that time of life, where the giants of our youth are no longer young themselves. No matter when it comes, loss of those you love is … difficult. It’s cast a bit of a pall over my holidays. It made Thomas’s mix of sentimentality with an under-layer of sadness all the more apropos.
I’m heading home for a holiday party this year, something I haven’t done in several years. I think it will do my heart good, to sit surrounded by my uncles. I won’t be sitting among the Chinese lanterns and nibbling dates. More likely, I’ll be festooned with beer and pretzels, but my uncles will be there. And I’ll be home.
Like most things by Dylan Thomas, it is beautiful and lyric and full of made up hyphenated phrases that seem like they shouldn’t make sense, but are perfect in their descriptions.
“All the Christmases roll down towards the two-tongued sea, like a cold and headlong moon bundling down the sky that was our street; and they stop at the rim of the ice-edged, fish-freezing waves, and I plunge my hands in the snow and bring out whatever I can find. In goes my hand into that wool-white bell-tongued ball of holidays resting at the rim of the carol-singing sea, and out come Mrs. Prothero and the firemen.”
It’s heart-true, even when it doesn’t quite make sense. On reading it, I felt enveloped in holiday memories. Family parties of my own childhood, full of uncles and aunts and cousins and mischief. Thomas’s uncles, like mine, were large men, in front parlors, with new cigars or sitting in front of fires with loosened buttons.
It’s been a rough year for uncles in my family. I’ve already lost one. My husband has recently lost one, as well. Another has just been diagnosed with stage four cancer. I guess we’re to that time of life, where the giants of our youth are no longer young themselves. No matter when it comes, loss of those you love is … difficult. It’s cast a bit of a pall over my holidays. It made Thomas’s mix of sentimentality with an under-layer of sadness all the more apropos.
I’m heading home for a holiday party this year, something I haven’t done in several years. I think it will do my heart good, to sit surrounded by my uncles. I won’t be sitting among the Chinese lanterns and nibbling dates. More likely, I’ll be festooned with beer and pretzels, but my uncles will be there. And I’ll be home.
December 7, 2015
The Season's Readings Blog Tour
It's December already! Time for the holidays. This year, I got invited to the Mocha Memoirs Press party. Check out the rafflecopter at the end of this post for a chance to win some great prizes and be sure to visit other participating blogs. For my own part, I offer you a short story featuring Patricia O'Neill, the resident Grinch of the Menopausal Superheroes universe. If you enjoy it, you can see more of Patricia and the other heroines in Going Through the Change . The sequel, Change of Life, is due out from Curiosity Quills in April 2016.
O Scaly Night
Patricia hadn't planned on being alone for Christmas. It just sort of ended up that way. She'd planned on staying home for a quiet few days with Suzie, until Suzie got the strong-arm to join the rest of the clan Up East. She wasn't ready to take Patricia with her, she said, and Patricia tried to seem disappointed about that to save Suzie's feelings. In reality, she was relieved. She wasn't looking forward to the whole in-laws thing. She'd avoided it for the first fifty-eight years of her life and could happily do so for all her remaining years. Heck, she wasn't even used to being with Suzie herself yet.
She didn't spare a thought for her own family. What remained of it was spread out and not what anyone would describe as close. In fact, some of it was downright contentious.
Jessica was doing the newlywed Christmas with Walter, probably embarrassing the heck out of her boys with mistletoe and the whole shebang. Sure, they'd invited her to come by, but she wouldn't be going. God no. She'd rather stab herself in the eye with a fork. Same with Leonel and David, for different reasons. Things were already tense between the two of them. She definitely wasn't going to walk into that family drama. No way. No how.
She didn't let herself think about Cindy either. It was time to let that friendship go and admit that she might never have known her best friend as well as she thought she had. Besides, Cindy never celebrated Christmas much anyway, saving her holiday energy for Chinese New Year's.
So, here it was, nearly midnight on Christmas Eve. Patricia had tried holiday movies, one cheesy and one heartfelt, and popcorn, but it all seemed to leave a bad taste in her mouth. She eyed her phone, but the screen stayed stubbornly black. Suzie would probably try to call later, but, even if she did, Patricia knew their conversation would be stilted and awkward. If she called at all, it would be late, after the rest of the family had finally gone to bed. And Patricia had no idea what she'd say.
Patricia looked out the window. The city of Springfield was awash in lights. Some of the buildings had done up full holiday displays and she could see the flashing reds and greens from across the river. Looking at it, she felt she had to get out. Her spacious condo suddenly felt as tight as a closet and she needed air.
She pulled on her long coat and stepped out into the night. It wasn't supposed to snow, but the air was crisp and felt good against her skin, clean and fresh. She realized she hadn't been outside the entire day. No wonder she felt so cooped up. Indiana farmland girls like her needed a daily quota of fresh air. She got weird when she spent too much time inside.
Shoving her hands in her pockets, she headed for the pond on the other side of the complex. There was a wooden bridge over the man-made watering hole, and it was a pleasant place to stand and look at the water, especially late at night when most of the inhabitants of the complex were sound asleep. Patricia often went there when she couldn't sleep.
The water was very still. The fountain was turned off for the season and there was no wind to speak of. The lake was probably quite shallow, but the way the surface was reflecting the surrounding buildings and streetlights made it seem miles deep. Patricia wished she had brought some bread to toss out for the koi. The ducks and geese were already gone for the season. It might have been nice to see another living thing.
Leaning against the railing, she turned and surveyed the buildings around her. There were five identical buildings. The condos on this side all had patios or balconies facing towards the lake. Patricia's own apartment had a big window at the end of a hall that afforded her a glimpse of the lake, but she preferred the view from the big windows on the living room side overlooking the city. The lake, in her opinion, was better enjoyed up close.
A breeze came up and Patricia let her scales rise on her neck and cheeks. Her alter ego was less sensitive to the cold than she was. Patricia hadn't quite figured out why that was, but it was helpful sometimes. She was careful to limit her transformation, though. No reason to ruin a good coat by letting her spikes come through.
As her scales came up, her vision changed a little as well. Her lizard-eyes could see better in the night than her human ones. She spotted the man standing on the other side of the lake. She hadn't noticed him before, and, so far, it didn't look like he had spotted her. He was standing under a small tree, one of the ones that flowered white in the springtime, but was bare this time of year. He had his back to the lake and Patricia and seemed to be watching one of the apartment windows. She couldn't have explained why, but Patricia felt there was something off about the guy. She watched him more closely.
In the space of the few minutes she watched, he began and abandoned six cigarettes. Each time he threw the half-smoked cigarette into the grass and twisted his heel on it, moving like he had made up his mind and was going to go do something. Each time, he took a step, then stopped, swung his arms back and forth a few times and retreated to the space under the tree. Patricia began to walk around the lake. She wanted to be within reach, just in case. She continued to watch him as she walked, keeping her steps light and as quiet as she could, glad that her coat was black and wouldn't show up well in the darkness. He never turned.
By the light of his next cigarette, she was able to make out some details of his face and appearance. She made note of them, practicing better observation as they were training her to do at the Department. He was thirty-five or forty years old by her estimation. White, with dark brown or black hair, worn long enough that it stuck out in wings beneath his knit cap. He had an indeterminate beard, one that could mean he was just a few days unshaven or that he kept his facial hair at that Miami Vice level that had been so popular for a while. His coat was nice, but frayed at the cuffs and missing a few buttons, so that could mean he had fallen on harder times or just that he loved the coat and wore it even though he should be replacing it. He was broad in the shoulders, but not particularly tall. Patricia was sure that if she stood beside him, she'd tower over him by at least four inches.
The man hadn't done anything except for seem tense and smoke some cigarettes, but Patricia still felt that he bore watching. Maybe she was just bored and looking for something to do. Or maybe there was trouble. Watching him repeat the cigarette-decision-dance two more times, she grew frustrated with waiting. Patience had never been her strong suit.
Pulling in her scales, she walked up to the guy, being careful to crunch a few leaves along the way, so she wouldn't sneak up on him. "Can I bum a smoke?" she asked. Patricia didn't smoke, but she thought she could fake it, at least as a way to start a conversation. The man jumped. "Sorry. I didn't mean to scare you," she offered, hands spread. The man pulled out the pack of cigarettes and handed her one without comment. Patricia played with it in her fingers for a moment. "Can't sleep?"
The man turned and looked at her then. Face to face, Patricia could see that he was tired. His eyes were red and watery and the circles under his eyes were deep enough to suggest more than one sleepless night. His eyes flicked over her quickly. Patricia was sure he had categorized her as a harmless middle aged woman, too old to flirt with and unlikely to do him damage. Little did he know. "Yeah," he finally said.
"Which one is yours?" she asked, gesturing at the windows in front of them. "I'm across the lake, myself." She hoped it sounded like a regular nosy-neighbor kind of question. She also hoped he had a ready answer. He didn't. The hesitation wasn't long, but the sigh that accompanied it spoke volumes.
"If you don't mind, I don't want to talk about it." His voice was even, though the words were clipped. Patricia didn't like the tension she saw in his jaw.
She laid a hand on his arm. He jumped back as if she had stung him. "You sure? You seem like a man with something on his mind. I can be a good listener." Or at least she thought she could fake it long enough to figure out if someone was in danger here.
"You got kids?" he asked.
"Me? Hell, no."
He laughed in a way that showed he didn't find it funny. He lit another cigarette, the last in the pack. He didn't seem to have noticed that Patricia wasn't lighting hers. "Maybe that's for the best, sometimes. Me, I got four of them. Up there." He gestured at a second story balcony just to the right of the place where they stood.
Patricia followed his finger. She flipped up the collar just slightly to hide her cheeks and brought up her scales again. She really only wanted the night vision, but, at least so far, she couldn't get the eyes without the facial scales. She'd need to work on that some more. Once she could see, she could see some signs of trouble. The glass door that led to the balcony was taped, as if it had been broken and hastily patched by someone without the tools or skills to do it right. A jagged impact was evident in the glass. It looked like the glass had been punched from the inside. "What happened to the door?" she asked.
The man looked her way and Patricia took a step backwards into the shadows while she schooled her face into its normal, middle-aged woman aspect. "I think he hits them," the man said, his voice bleak as the gray afternoon had been.
"Damn." She thought it might be something like that, but she had so wanted to be wrong. She'd seen this story more than once, and not just on the evening news. She remembered her fourth stepfather, the one she'd had arrested. Her mother never forgave her for it. But even at sixteen, Patricia had no tolerance for bullies. He'd bruised her littlest sister, gripping her arm so hard it left finger marks. Of course, they both said it was "just an accident" and that he'd "been drinking" like any of that made it even remotely okay. She wasn't going to let that man hurt one of the littler kids worse before she did something about it. She wouldn't let that happen now either. "What's the apartment number?"
"Sixteen B," he said.
"Is he in there?"
"I think so."
"And the mother and kids?"
He shook his head. "At her mother's. They won't be back until morning."
Patricia smiled. The man gasped. "What's wrong with your face?"
Patricia smiled again, her scales filling in fully. "This is the face of justice." She took off her coat and tossed it over a nearby bench, then sat down and took off her shoes. The man just stared at her as she loped off across the lawn and jogged up the steps.
Patricia, as drawn by Charles C. DowdA few second later, she was standing in front of sixteen B, listening. She could hear a television playing. Taking a moment to concentrate and focus, she brought out her full transformation. She heard the cloth ripping as her spikes came out and tore up the back of her shirt, but the top still held together well enough to keep her covered. She almost never wore anything anymore that wouldn't. Raising one taloned hand, she knocked on the door. She was tempted to joke, "Avon Calling," but she knew it was just adrenaline making her giddy.Through the door, she heard some muffled cursing and heavy footsteps as someone moved to the door. "What do you want?" the man said as he threw the door open. Patricia didn't give him time to react to the sight of her. She place one hand on the door and one on the man's chest, flinging him back as she pushed the door open, then slamming the door closed behind her.
The man landed on his butt in the middle of the rug. His eyes grew wide as he took in Patricia. She knew that look. She'd seen it on many different faces in the year since her transformation took place. It was part disbelief and part fear. "What are you?" The man stuttered as he crawled away and got to his hands and knees in an attempt to stand.
Patricia leaped at him, knocking him onto his back, then standing with a heavy, taloned foot on his chest. "Me? I'm your worst nightmare. A woman who fights back."
The man tried to sit up, but she didn't give him a chance. Using the new moves she had learned in training, she rolled him over and hauled him up, tugging his arms behind his back so he was held low and awkwardly, unable to quite get his balance. She duck-walked him to the balcony door, shoving his head against the doorframe while she shoved the broken door aside. She wanted to make sure the father of these children got to see what happened here. She pushed the man so his torso fell over the railing, then let go of his arms and picked him up by his legs, so that he flailed into open air. He'd be fine if he didn't struggle too much. He tried to scream, but threw up instead.
"You like to hit people who don't hit back, don't you?" The man didn't answer her. He just sort of groaned. She lifted him a inch or two higher. "I asked you a question."
"They made me mad," he said. Patricia nearly let him fall then, but she didn't really want to make the family deal with a corpse and the police.
Instead, she pulled him back and let him fall into a heap on the balcony. "You know what makes me mad?" He didn't answer, though he seemed to be gathering himself for an attack. Patricia took a ready stance, just in case he really was that stupid. "Men who think that violence makes them men." Just as she'd suspected, he charged her, telegraphing his move as he clumsily got back into a crouching position, then hurling himself at her knees. She stepped aside, letting him collide with the doorframe. There was a crack. Patricia wasn't sure if it were the man or the doorframe that cracked but it didn't matter. The man was howling on the floor at her feet.
"Come on, bud. You've got a note to write and some packing to do."
An hour later, there was a note on the table, held down with a water glass. The handwriting was shaky, but legible. It was full of apologies, and a promise not to come back. It was a promise he'd keep. Patricia had taken his driver's license, just in case she needed to find him.
By three o'clock, Patricia and the man she'd found by the lake had managed to patch the broken door well enough to hold for a few days. When they had locked the door and replaced the extra key in the flower pot outside, they went back down to the water's edge and stood looking at the water together. Patricia could feel the man's incredulous gaze on her, but she didn't turn to look at him. She handed him back the cigarette she had never smoked. It was still inside her coat pocket. "Merry Christmas," she said, then finished her walk around the lake and headed for home. She might have something to say to Suzie after all, if she called.
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December 2, 2015
#IWSG: On Not Winning
I participated in my third NaNoWriMo this year…and I didn't make it. It's my third NaNoWriMo, and I made it the other two times, so it's not that the goal is out of my reach just on principle. And I made a respectable chunk of words. A little over 31,000 of them. Some of them are even good, but I didn't make 50K in November.
I'm not good at not finishing things. I'm not a person with a trail of unfinished projects left in the closets of my life. I'm not a quitter. Generally, if I say I'm doing something, I am. I've got a combination of German immigrant work ethic (thanks Grandma Lena) and Jewish guilt (thanks Grandma Alice). That makes me a workhorse of a woman who gets things done. Maybe that's why it feels so strange that I didn't finish this…and I'm oddly kind of okay with that.
Generally, I'm not okay with it when I don't finish things. Does this mean I'm growing up? Or something more sinister? Am I knowing my limits and being reasonable or selling myself short?
http://media.salon.com/2010/11/better... I wanted out of NaNoWriMo was a jump start for this novel, the third in my Menopausal Superhero series (working title: Face the Change). A healthy start so that I can get it finished by early in the year, through my critique group and ready for the publisher by June. And though I didn't get 50,000 words, I did get what I wanted in that sense.On an average month, during the school year, when I'm balancing the day job and the family and my annoying need for sleep, I write 250-800 words a day. So, for a thirty day month, that's 7,500-24,000 words. It's probably closer to 7,500 than to 24,000 most months. A lot of times those aren't all on one project, but might include blog posts, articles, short stories, and novel progress. So 30K all on one project? That's a damn fine chunk of words, and definitely moves me a giant step nearer finishing in a timely manner.
http://cdn2.asthebirdfliesblog.com/co... the other hand, I might be setting a dangerous precedent for myself by not meeting a deadline and being okay with that. What if this becomes an attitude I have to fight in myself? Meeting deadlines is one of the most important things a writer needs to learn to do. If you miss deadlines, and people can't rely on you for what you promised, then you stop get invited to do things. Things like submit to anthologies, or participate in author events. I'm overthinking it, probably. So, what do you think IWSGers? What's the line? How do you tell when it's healthy to let go of something and when it's a cop out? _________________________________________
This posting is part of the Insecure Writers Support Group blog hop. To check out other posts by writers in a variety of places in their careers, check out the participant list. This group is one of the most open and supportive groups of people I have ever been associated with. If you write, you should check them out!
December 1, 2015
How I'm Surviving Keeping Sequel Details Away From Fans: Guest Post: Kate McIntyre
I'm pleased to have guest author Kate McIntyre on my blog today talking about that no woman's land between books: sequel written, but not yet available. I'm in the same boat, and she's so right about how it feels! -SB
______________________________________________________How I'm Surviving Keeping Sequel Details Away From Fans
by Kate McIntyre
Darrington City is on the verge of total political and economic collapse. Olivia Faraday. the eccentric Deathsniffer, is the only employer willing to consider the resume of impoverished rich boy Christopher Buckley. Soon enough, Olivia and Chris have a grisly murder to solve -- if they can manage before the city is torn apart around them. The Deathsniffer's Assistant combines fantasy and mystery and is available via BookBub for .99c on November 30 and December 1st!
“When is the second one coming out??”
Ah. Is there any more double-edged question for a writer?
On the one hand:
“Oh my gosh! You liked my book? Well, you must, if you’re asking me for the second one. You must really like my book. You must be dying to find out what’s happening! That’s amazing. Someone actually cares what’s going to happen next in a story I made up! And they’re going to keep coming back and reading my stories! Can anything possibly be more wonderful?”
On the other hand:
“I don’t know the answer and I really want to tell you everything that happens because it’s burning a hole in my braaaaain!”
The sequel to my debut is called The Timeseer’s Gambit. And it is finished. It’s been finished for months now. The minute I typed “END MANUSCRIPT,” I jumped on twitter to let my people know. The minute I finished my final draft of that manuscript, I did the same thing. And unfortunately, some time has passed.
The thing about second novels is that while they take a lot lesstime to go from manuscript to book, it somehow feels a thousand times longer. My first book occupied a little corner of my brain while my agent tried to sell it. I was excited to find a publisher and get my career going, but it didn’t burn in me the way that the sequel does. The difference, of course, is... well, you. My readers. Nobody was waiting for the first one, and I had no guarantee that anyone was even going to like it.
A second book is an entirely different beast.
It drives me crazy when a review will say something like “I hope there’s a follow up for this,” or “I hope Chris experiences long term consequences for that.” I want to excitedly tell them that their wishes will all be granted in the sequel, or explain why they won’t, and I can’t. I have to put a sock in it and suffer. But that’s nothing compared to my fans.
I don’t have a horde of them, or anything, but I do have a few really devoted ones! And I get asked about the second book a lot, and honestly, it absolutely kills me keeping my mouth shut. I don’t think my fans believe me when I say I’m possibly more excited than they are, but it’s true. Everyone who’s read the second one so far claims it’s better than the first. I know for a fact I poured a lot more emotion and personal experience into the second one, too. I can’t even describe how much I’m looking forward to people who care about my characters getting their hands on the sequel.
So how do I handle it??
As much as I want to, I can’t just start bellowing spoilers. I’m proud of the book and I want it to stand on its own legs. There’s so much great stuff in it that I want readers to experience in its full glory, and not in my breathless rendition of it. My secret is in my workshop group who have read the early version of it, including family and close friends and fiance. Every time I’m about to burst, I text one of them.
“I can’t wait for people to read the part where ______!” I write, and they inevitably, wonderfully, text back telling me how great that part is and how they’re excited, too. And then... whew. Some of the tension eases.
Not all of it, though...
I don’t think there’s any way to reallyfix the hole this book is burning in me except a release date and books in hands. But for now, I’m just going to keep my lips as sealed as I can. And keep worshipping at the feet of the people who tempt me to speak up. As far as problems to have, eager fans is one of the best available. They’re the reason I do this.
Kate McIntyre was born and raised in the frigid white north, having spent her entire life in Moncton, New Brunswick. She learned to appreciate the quintessential Canadian things: endless winters, self-deprecating jokes, the untamed wilderness, and excessive politeness. Somehow it was the latter that she chose to write about. Kate loves crochet, video games, board games, reading, and listening to bad pop music very loudly.
______________________________________________________How I'm Surviving Keeping Sequel Details Away From Fans
by Kate McIntyre
Darrington City is on the verge of total political and economic collapse. Olivia Faraday. the eccentric Deathsniffer, is the only employer willing to consider the resume of impoverished rich boy Christopher Buckley. Soon enough, Olivia and Chris have a grisly murder to solve -- if they can manage before the city is torn apart around them. The Deathsniffer's Assistant combines fantasy and mystery and is available via BookBub for .99c on November 30 and December 1st!“When is the second one coming out??”
Ah. Is there any more double-edged question for a writer?
On the one hand:
“Oh my gosh! You liked my book? Well, you must, if you’re asking me for the second one. You must really like my book. You must be dying to find out what’s happening! That’s amazing. Someone actually cares what’s going to happen next in a story I made up! And they’re going to keep coming back and reading my stories! Can anything possibly be more wonderful?”
On the other hand:
“I don’t know the answer and I really want to tell you everything that happens because it’s burning a hole in my braaaaain!”
The sequel to my debut is called The Timeseer’s Gambit. And it is finished. It’s been finished for months now. The minute I typed “END MANUSCRIPT,” I jumped on twitter to let my people know. The minute I finished my final draft of that manuscript, I did the same thing. And unfortunately, some time has passed.
The thing about second novels is that while they take a lot lesstime to go from manuscript to book, it somehow feels a thousand times longer. My first book occupied a little corner of my brain while my agent tried to sell it. I was excited to find a publisher and get my career going, but it didn’t burn in me the way that the sequel does. The difference, of course, is... well, you. My readers. Nobody was waiting for the first one, and I had no guarantee that anyone was even going to like it.
A second book is an entirely different beast.
It drives me crazy when a review will say something like “I hope there’s a follow up for this,” or “I hope Chris experiences long term consequences for that.” I want to excitedly tell them that their wishes will all be granted in the sequel, or explain why they won’t, and I can’t. I have to put a sock in it and suffer. But that’s nothing compared to my fans.
I don’t have a horde of them, or anything, but I do have a few really devoted ones! And I get asked about the second book a lot, and honestly, it absolutely kills me keeping my mouth shut. I don’t think my fans believe me when I say I’m possibly more excited than they are, but it’s true. Everyone who’s read the second one so far claims it’s better than the first. I know for a fact I poured a lot more emotion and personal experience into the second one, too. I can’t even describe how much I’m looking forward to people who care about my characters getting their hands on the sequel.
So how do I handle it??
As much as I want to, I can’t just start bellowing spoilers. I’m proud of the book and I want it to stand on its own legs. There’s so much great stuff in it that I want readers to experience in its full glory, and not in my breathless rendition of it. My secret is in my workshop group who have read the early version of it, including family and close friends and fiance. Every time I’m about to burst, I text one of them.
“I can’t wait for people to read the part where ______!” I write, and they inevitably, wonderfully, text back telling me how great that part is and how they’re excited, too. And then... whew. Some of the tension eases.
Not all of it, though...
I don’t think there’s any way to reallyfix the hole this book is burning in me except a release date and books in hands. But for now, I’m just going to keep my lips as sealed as I can. And keep worshipping at the feet of the people who tempt me to speak up. As far as problems to have, eager fans is one of the best available. They’re the reason I do this.
Kate McIntyre was born and raised in the frigid white north, having spent her entire life in Moncton, New Brunswick. She learned to appreciate the quintessential Canadian things: endless winters, self-deprecating jokes, the untamed wilderness, and excessive politeness. Somehow it was the latter that she chose to write about. Kate loves crochet, video games, board games, reading, and listening to bad pop music very loudly.
November 25, 2015
Of Turkeys and Word Counts
November means two things at my house: NaNoWriMo and Thanksgiving. Both are a little different this year.
I'm thankful to be able to say that it's been a good year for writing. My debut novel, Going Through the Change, came out in April. The sequel is in editing now, and I'm trying to draft the three-quel for National Novel Writing Month. I've also had some short stories accepted for anthologies, that should all pop here in the next few months. Of course, since it has been a good year for writing, I've had new things to fit into my calendar like promotions, sales, author events, and Atomacon!
https://timothyjohnedwards.files.word...
This means I'm seriously behind on my word count. In fact, I have substantial doubts that I'll make my 50K this year. That makes me a little sad, but it doesn't feel as bad as it might have another year. I know I'll finish the novel regardless of the timing, and it's not worth driving myself crazy just to fit the words into this particular month. After all, every month is novel-writing month for me, though I don't usually produce 50K in one month. I still have a day job, kids, a dog, and a love life to consider, not to mention a need to read and play video games once in a while.
https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/...
Often I catch up on the word count over Thanksgiving (this is my third NaNoWriMo, and I won both other years), but I haven't been this far behind before. So we'll see what we see.
Thanksgiving is going to be smaller this year with only my own family of four gathered around the table. I am both grateful for this and a little sad. Thanksgiving can be a great time to get together with your loved ones, but most of mine live pretty far away and none of us want to spend our precious holiday hours in the car all day.
So, I'll be having a quiet holiday in comparison to other years. I think I'm most thankful of all for that. Quiet can be a lovely lovely thing.
http://www.rottenecards.com/ecards/Ro...
I'm thankful to be able to say that it's been a good year for writing. My debut novel, Going Through the Change, came out in April. The sequel is in editing now, and I'm trying to draft the three-quel for National Novel Writing Month. I've also had some short stories accepted for anthologies, that should all pop here in the next few months. Of course, since it has been a good year for writing, I've had new things to fit into my calendar like promotions, sales, author events, and Atomacon!
https://timothyjohnedwards.files.word...This means I'm seriously behind on my word count. In fact, I have substantial doubts that I'll make my 50K this year. That makes me a little sad, but it doesn't feel as bad as it might have another year. I know I'll finish the novel regardless of the timing, and it's not worth driving myself crazy just to fit the words into this particular month. After all, every month is novel-writing month for me, though I don't usually produce 50K in one month. I still have a day job, kids, a dog, and a love life to consider, not to mention a need to read and play video games once in a while.
https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/...Often I catch up on the word count over Thanksgiving (this is my third NaNoWriMo, and I won both other years), but I haven't been this far behind before. So we'll see what we see.
Thanksgiving is going to be smaller this year with only my own family of four gathered around the table. I am both grateful for this and a little sad. Thanksgiving can be a great time to get together with your loved ones, but most of mine live pretty far away and none of us want to spend our precious holiday hours in the car all day.
So, I'll be having a quiet holiday in comparison to other years. I think I'm most thankful of all for that. Quiet can be a lovely lovely thing.
http://www.rottenecards.com/ecards/Ro...November 18, 2015
Atomacon Wrap Up
This past weekend was my first con. No, I didn't bilk an old lady out of her fortune, trick an old millionaire into marrying me, or anything like that. Though I'm sure I could rock a good hat and shades, given the opportunity.
Glenne Headley as seen in Dirty Rotten Scoundrels
No, this is a different sort of con. Con as in short for convention. I was a guest author at Atomacon! The six months since the release of my debut novel have been filled with all kinds of firsts.
From receiving my first delivery of a box of my own books, to my book release party at FlyLeaf books in Chapel Hill, to my first book fair (Read Local NC, Durham), to picking out table swag, it's been a wild and wonderful ride so far.
Cosplayers, as characters from Steven UniverseAtomacon was a perfect first con. Small enough to feel personable and big enough to feel professional, full of kind people in every corner. I'm hoping to attend a lot of cons in my career, maybe even someday to the be the literary guest of honor, but I couldn't have asked for a better beginning.
My author table, shared with Darin Kennedy, who was kind enough to give me the prime banner space.I got to talk about superheroes and characters from my favorite corners of the speculative universe with writers, fans, and artists. I offered my advice on panels, signed books at my table, and celebrated book releases with other writers. I met a man who built an R2D2 he could control with a remote. The members of Broad Universe were so kind and welcoming and I had a great time participating in my first Rapid Fire Reading with them.
So, thank you South Carolina. I had a great time and hope to make a tradition of it!
Glenne Headley as seen in Dirty Rotten ScoundrelsNo, this is a different sort of con. Con as in short for convention. I was a guest author at Atomacon! The six months since the release of my debut novel have been filled with all kinds of firsts.
From receiving my first delivery of a box of my own books, to my book release party at FlyLeaf books in Chapel Hill, to my first book fair (Read Local NC, Durham), to picking out table swag, it's been a wild and wonderful ride so far.
Cosplayers, as characters from Steven UniverseAtomacon was a perfect first con. Small enough to feel personable and big enough to feel professional, full of kind people in every corner. I'm hoping to attend a lot of cons in my career, maybe even someday to the be the literary guest of honor, but I couldn't have asked for a better beginning.
My author table, shared with Darin Kennedy, who was kind enough to give me the prime banner space.I got to talk about superheroes and characters from my favorite corners of the speculative universe with writers, fans, and artists. I offered my advice on panels, signed books at my table, and celebrated book releases with other writers. I met a man who built an R2D2 he could control with a remote. The members of Broad Universe were so kind and welcoming and I had a great time participating in my first Rapid Fire Reading with them.
So, thank you South Carolina. I had a great time and hope to make a tradition of it!
November 17, 2015
Buildilng Toulene: Guest Post from Tegan Wren
It's my pleasure to host a fellow Literary Marauder from Curiosity Quills, Tegan Wren. Tegan's novel, Inconceivable!, released yesterday. I read and reviewed an early copy and really enjoyed the book and was part of her cover reveal in September. Today she's sharing the story behind Toulene, the imaginary kingdom she created for her book:
________________________________________Building Touleneby: Tegan Wren
When I decided to write a book about a royal couple struggling with infertility, I had a very important decision to make: what would be the setting for this story? The obvious choice was the U.K. After all, it was Prince William marrying Kate Middleton and the resulting question—what would it be like if they couldn’t conceive?—that inspired me to write INCONCEIVABLE!
It didn’t take long for me to dismiss the idea of setting my story in the United Kingdom. For one thing, I’ve spent a total of two hours in the country and that was only for a layover at London’s Heathrow Airport when I was headed to a journalism fellowship in Germany. Given my lack of in-country time, I didn’t think I could do enough research on this side of the pond to make the book feel authentic.
That’s when I decided to create my own country. I’m not sure how I came up with the name Toulene. I just started using it in the early stages of the story. I experimented with different spellings before settling on one.
Establishing Boundaries
Because I have spent some time in the northern coastal countries of continental Europe, I decided my small, fictional country would sit between France and Belgium. (If you know anything about this area, you know land is at a premium. So, I give my deepest apologies for taking some of the prime farm land and building my country on it.)
Next, I looked at some of the city names in this part of Europe. Roeselare, the capital of Toulene, is the real name of city in Belgium. De Haan is a Belgian coastal city near The Netherlands, so I used this name for the coastal city where Prince John does his research on invasive species.
Historical and Cultural Considerations
Next, I had to think about how Toulene came to be and the cultural implications of its history. I wanted English to be the dominant language, so I imagined a group of disgruntled lower royals/landowners from England left the country and claimed this patch of land as their own, easily defeating and taking over the peasants in this part of continental Europe. This premise made it easy to see Toulene as a melting pot of languages, traditions, and other cultures. So, I borrowed character names from France and Belgium, mixing those with British names like John and Victoria.
A Royal Palace
I searched online for real British palaces to find inspiration for the royal residence. I came upon an estate in the U.K. called Belvoir Castle. It’s simply stunning. Because this property is active and people can rent it for special occasions, I found a treasure trove of photos that I used to spark my imagination as I envisioned Belvoir Palace in INCONCEIVABLE! In the real castle, there’s a red room with high ceilings and gorgeous old paintings, and I loved the idea of Hatty and John sharing some special moments in that kind of space. I even used the photos of the castle bedrooms as inspiration for the palace bedrooms in my book.
Of course, the real place and the photos merely served as my jumping-off point. I built out the grounds in my mind and imagined many more rooms than we see in online photos of the castle. The basement ballet studio was my own invention, and I created the idea of “The Flat,” the upstairs apartments where the royals live their day-to-day lives.
I’ve never visited the real Belvoir Castle, but you can be sure it’s on my bucket list! Walking its grounds and touring its rooms would be pure magic.
Real or not real?
I’ve had more than a few readers ask me if Toulene is a real country. I love that the sense of place is so strong and rings true. I really hope readers enjoy the time they spend in Toulene. I’ve done some very preliminary work on another novel set in and around Toulene. I simply can’t resist the idea of building another story in this country of mine. After all, why create a new country and then only tell one of its stories?
_____________________________Here are the links, if you're interested in learning more about Tegan or her book:
Amazon US Amazon UK Goodreads Blog Twitter Facebook Instagram
________________________________________Building Touleneby: Tegan Wren
When I decided to write a book about a royal couple struggling with infertility, I had a very important decision to make: what would be the setting for this story? The obvious choice was the U.K. After all, it was Prince William marrying Kate Middleton and the resulting question—what would it be like if they couldn’t conceive?—that inspired me to write INCONCEIVABLE!
It didn’t take long for me to dismiss the idea of setting my story in the United Kingdom. For one thing, I’ve spent a total of two hours in the country and that was only for a layover at London’s Heathrow Airport when I was headed to a journalism fellowship in Germany. Given my lack of in-country time, I didn’t think I could do enough research on this side of the pond to make the book feel authentic.
That’s when I decided to create my own country. I’m not sure how I came up with the name Toulene. I just started using it in the early stages of the story. I experimented with different spellings before settling on one.
Establishing Boundaries
Because I have spent some time in the northern coastal countries of continental Europe, I decided my small, fictional country would sit between France and Belgium. (If you know anything about this area, you know land is at a premium. So, I give my deepest apologies for taking some of the prime farm land and building my country on it.)
Next, I looked at some of the city names in this part of Europe. Roeselare, the capital of Toulene, is the real name of city in Belgium. De Haan is a Belgian coastal city near The Netherlands, so I used this name for the coastal city where Prince John does his research on invasive species.
Historical and Cultural Considerations
Next, I had to think about how Toulene came to be and the cultural implications of its history. I wanted English to be the dominant language, so I imagined a group of disgruntled lower royals/landowners from England left the country and claimed this patch of land as their own, easily defeating and taking over the peasants in this part of continental Europe. This premise made it easy to see Toulene as a melting pot of languages, traditions, and other cultures. So, I borrowed character names from France and Belgium, mixing those with British names like John and Victoria.
A Royal Palace
I searched online for real British palaces to find inspiration for the royal residence. I came upon an estate in the U.K. called Belvoir Castle. It’s simply stunning. Because this property is active and people can rent it for special occasions, I found a treasure trove of photos that I used to spark my imagination as I envisioned Belvoir Palace in INCONCEIVABLE! In the real castle, there’s a red room with high ceilings and gorgeous old paintings, and I loved the idea of Hatty and John sharing some special moments in that kind of space. I even used the photos of the castle bedrooms as inspiration for the palace bedrooms in my book.
Of course, the real place and the photos merely served as my jumping-off point. I built out the grounds in my mind and imagined many more rooms than we see in online photos of the castle. The basement ballet studio was my own invention, and I created the idea of “The Flat,” the upstairs apartments where the royals live their day-to-day lives.
I’ve never visited the real Belvoir Castle, but you can be sure it’s on my bucket list! Walking its grounds and touring its rooms would be pure magic.
Real or not real?
I’ve had more than a few readers ask me if Toulene is a real country. I love that the sense of place is so strong and rings true. I really hope readers enjoy the time they spend in Toulene. I’ve done some very preliminary work on another novel set in and around Toulene. I simply can’t resist the idea of building another story in this country of mine. After all, why create a new country and then only tell one of its stories?
_____________________________Here are the links, if you're interested in learning more about Tegan or her book:
Amazon US Amazon UK Goodreads Blog Twitter Facebook Instagram
November 16, 2015
Cover Reveal: Asleep by Krystal Wade
Today is the cover reveal for Asleep by Krystal Wade, a YA horror that will have you on the edge of your seat with every page turn. This is the debut novel from Blaze Publishing, set to be released February 16, 2016. Pre-orders are available now from Amazon. Mark your calendars, and be sure to add the book to your Goodreads list! Share the cover on social media using our Rafflecopter entry below for a chance to win the awesome prizes listed, or come join us at the Cover Reveal Party on Facebook. Or do it all!
"To cure fear, you must use fear."
Rose Briar claims no responsibility for the act that led to her imprisonment in an asylum. She wants to escape, until terrifying nightmares make her question her sanity and reach out to her doctor. He's understanding and caring in ways her parents never have been, but as her walls tumble down and Rose admits fault, a fellow patient warns her to stop the medications. Phillip believes the doctor is evil and they'll never make it out of the facility alive. Trusting him might be just the thing to save her. Or it might prove the asylum is exactly where she needs to be.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
AUTHOR. CHICKEN (AND DOG) LOVER. MOTHER. WIFE. DREAMER.I’m happily married to the love of my life (don’t gag) and raising three beautiful children in the gorgeous state of Virginia. We live just outside Washington, D.C., and every day I wake up to find myself stuck in traffic trying to get there.
The horrid commute gives me plenty of time to zone out and think about my characters in full, brilliant details (I’m a safe driver; don’t worry). Stories give me a way to forget about the sometimes smelly strangers sitting next to me on the fifty mile trek into town (I pick up hitchhikers every day. True story. Check out www.slug-lines.com if you don’t believe me).
I’ve been a part of organized hitchhiking for nearly fifteen years, but that’s just one small aspect of my oh-so-large life. When I’m not working, commuting, or chasing after my three children (four if you count the man), you can usually find me outside talking to my chickens like they’re the cutest things in the world (they are), or training my amazing dogs how to herd said chickens (which they love), or curled up on the sofa with a good book (why can’t that be 100% of the time?).
I hope you love my stories (or just like them a little; that would be okay, too). And I hope that one day you find your passion, because there’s nothing in life better than doing what you love while surrounded by people you love.
<3 Krystal
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ABOUT BLAZE PUBLISHING:
Books with Heart for Teen and Young Adults
At Blaze, we're committed to bringing you high-quality, hard-hitting books full of heart. Whether the story is a mystery, a thriller, horror, steampunk, or some goofy comedy, there will be a message woven into the pages for readers to find and fall in love with. We want you to walk away inspired, in awe, or just happy to be alive. Or maybe you'll look at other people differently, in a less negative light. Whatever the case, you will find heart in our stories.
Our goal is to bring you four or five amazing works of fiction in 2016, and six in 2017 and each year after. We've already lined up a few and can't wait to see what comes across our desks next!
Do you have a submission you'd like to send us? We'd love to see it! You can find our submissions guidelines on our website.
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