Samantha Bryant's Blog, page 75
June 3, 2015
#IWSG: Starting the Con Circuit
My one novel out there in the world is a superhero novel, which might be science fiction or might be fantasy depending on who is shelving the books, but is definitely speculative fiction. So, this means that one of my best promotional strategies is the con. Not a Leverage sort of Con, but con, as in, short for convention. A gathering of geeky folk.
I'm not new to cons. I've been attending on the consumer side for a few years now, pretty such since marrying my husband raised my XP and leveled me up. But this will be my first year appearing on the other side of the table/podium/etc. I'm really excited about that, and also nervous as heck.
So, I've been dipping my toes in the water. I got an author table at a local book festival. I've agreed to be a presenter or participant in a couple of library events this summer. And, I've started applying to be a guest at cons.In light of that, I went to ConCarolinas on a day pass this past Saturday (here's my article on GeekDad about it). Much as I learned to read like a writer, now I'm learning to "con" like a writer. I walked around the con, looking at the tables that attracted consumers (and didn't) and figuring out what they had, so I could learn to have that, too.
I wish it was as easy as just buying the same paraphernalia they had: book racks, standing posters, displays, swag, etc. But I can tell it's something more ephemeral than that, something about being approachable and attractive without being pushy. Dang. It's another "you know it when you see it" thing, isn't it? Like pornography and bad marketing on Twitter?
How about you IWSGers? Any advice for a neophyte book peddler heading for the world of cons?
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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. You should check them out!
June 1, 2015
The Best Bad Query Contest
+Sharon Bayliss is hosting another awesome bloghop. This one is the Best Bad Query Contest. It's not too late to join in the fun. Check out the linky on Sharon's site to visit the other Bad Queries and to vote for the best of the worst.
Here's mine:________________________________To Whom it May Concern:
My English teacher alwasy told me I was very creative and that I should write my stories down and now I have! It took me alsmot a month to write this book and another week to type it on the computer at my librerry and I'm willing to let you publish it at your company for me.
Deanna Sucks is a story about a girl who wentto highschool in a little town just like the one I live in. She was not popular or part of hte in-crowd and she had an arch enemy on the cheerleanding squad named Deanna. Every word of this story is the abosulte TRUTH! I put the whole entire first chapter below so you can read it.
There are a lto of girls like me out there who would love to read this story where the popular kids gets whats coming to them! It would also make a great TV show or movie with someone like that girl who was in Juno.
You can call me if you don't call too late or too early.
Looking forward to makign the big bucks!
-Samantha Bryant
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CHAPTER ONE
Deanna sneered her ugly face at the girl on the bleachers and whined to the other snooty cheerleaders. WHY IS SHE EVEN EHRE? The girl tried to be nice like her Mama tuaght her, but it was hard when Deanna was snarling at her like the ugly fat dog she was.
Later that day, the girl was talking to her beautiful, perfect boyfriend who is in a band and has an awesome car and they came up with teh bestest idea for revenge!
___________________________________
Thanks for reading! Follow the linky to see the other posts by the writer who decided to play along today.
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Here's mine:________________________________To Whom it May Concern:
My English teacher alwasy told me I was very creative and that I should write my stories down and now I have! It took me alsmot a month to write this book and another week to type it on the computer at my librerry and I'm willing to let you publish it at your company for me.
Deanna Sucks is a story about a girl who wentto highschool in a little town just like the one I live in. She was not popular or part of hte in-crowd and she had an arch enemy on the cheerleanding squad named Deanna. Every word of this story is the abosulte TRUTH! I put the whole entire first chapter below so you can read it.
There are a lto of girls like me out there who would love to read this story where the popular kids gets whats coming to them! It would also make a great TV show or movie with someone like that girl who was in Juno.
You can call me if you don't call too late or too early.
Looking forward to makign the big bucks!
-Samantha Bryant
_________________________________________
CHAPTER ONE
Deanna sneered her ugly face at the girl on the bleachers and whined to the other snooty cheerleaders. WHY IS SHE EVEN EHRE? The girl tried to be nice like her Mama tuaght her, but it was hard when Deanna was snarling at her like the ugly fat dog she was.
Later that day, the girl was talking to her beautiful, perfect boyfriend who is in a band and has an awesome car and they came up with teh bestest idea for revenge!
___________________________________
Thanks for reading! Follow the linky to see the other posts by the writer who decided to play along today.
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Click here to enter your link and view this Linky Tools list...
Summer Steampunk Festival: Guest Post by Jordan Elizabeth
The First Annual Hedlund Summer Steampunk FestivalCome to Hedlund for a riveting good time. Arrive in style using your personal steamcoach. Don’t forget to wear your finest attire and top it all off with a shot of absinthe.
Hedlund is home to Clark Treasure, the rogue star of TREASURE DARKLY, a young adult romance set in a steampunk Wild West world. Join him here in Hedlund while wearing your best cowboy boots and goggles. For three days only (July 1st, 2nd, and 3rd), TREASURE DARKLY is on sale as an Amazon ebook for just 99 cents. That’s a quite a steal, and Clark knows a lot about stealing, having swiped a bottle of what he thought was absinthe, but the green liquid actually gave him the ability to save the already deceased. TREASURE DARKLY picks up when Clark finds the father he never knew – a millionaire rancher meeting his illegitimate son? Ut oh – but what happens while Clark is on the run from the army and its captain who seeks to use him for his newfound power? Check out the following short story for an adventure featuring Clark Treasure in all his bad boy glory.###A Treasure TaleBy Jordan Elizabeth
Clark extended his hand for a shake, but the manager of Arvay Ranch shook his head. Not a good sign, that. Clark pulled off his glove, the leather worn almost clear through in the knuckles, and stretched out again, but the manager rocked back on his boot heels. “You’re an honest looking kid. I like that about you.” The manager turned his head to spit tobacco juice into the dirt. “We’re just mighty filled up here for the time being.” “I’m willing to do any job, sir. I can wrangle and rope. Work the fields. I know my way with a saw.” Brass glass, he’d be eager to muck out the outhouse if it came to that. His pockets didn’t jingle with coins as loudly as they used to. He’d had to leave his last job at a ranch further south – a good position where he looked after horses, when the army sniffed too close, and he hadn’t dared stop until now. “I can do housework too. I’ve trained with butlers.” He’d seen them, in the fancy ranch houses. That sort of work seemed to mean politeness and servitude, and not much else. The manager jammed his hands into the pockets of his denim slacks and narrowed his gaze at the Arvay Ranch. The Bromi woman who’d fetched him from the “Big House,” as she’d called it, stood by a fence with her head bowed. “Good lookin’ ranch,” Clark said. “Smaller than some I’ve seen, but hearty. A fellow can tell you folk love the land here.” Managers didn’t appreciate sugar-coating. If a man told it like it was, he got further with those who loved work, and Arvay Ranch shone with crisp paint and clean yards. “Place looks run well. Looks like your crop is peaches?” The manager nodded, tugging at the red bandana at his throat. “We are pretty booked here. Don’t really hire a lot of outside folk. You know what, though. My brother’s the doctor in town and I’m certain he could use help.” The image of a physician’s saw biting through a man’s gangrene-ridden leg pierced Clark’s mind and he forced his lips to remain in a line. He’d done worse in life. Brass glass, he’d helped the midwife back in Tangled Wire for spare pennies. Maybe he’d be able to use his ability to save a few lives. “I’d be grateful, sir. I can’t stay forever, just passing through, but I’d appreciate the job for the time being.” “I’ll write you a letter and some directions. Feel free to get yourself a drink at the well.” Clark pulled his glove back on and headed toward the pump near the shed. Sunlight beat against his neck, the skin bared by his ponytail, as he worked the brass handle. Water flowed out in clear spurts into a bucket on the grass. He used the hanging ladle to scoop out the liquid, frigid from the earth, and sighed. Nothing beat fresh water from a pump, not canteens or streams. Streams were good, but the water had a grittiness to it that stuck in his teeth. When his stomach felt thick with water, he sidled back toward his steamcycle, wiping the back of his mouth on the sleeve of his leather jacket. The Bromi woman stared at him while she plucked at the stained apron tied over her calico dress. Clark lifted his hand in a wave. If he spoke to her in her tongue and the manager returned, he might not be so willing to get him the job. “I know who you are,” she said. Talking in her tongue might not be so devastating then. Some ranches treated their Bromi with humanity. “I’m looking for work—” “Those who die live again for you.” She meant it in that way then. Ice crept over Clark’s skin and he folded his arms to appear nonchalant as he glanced at the ranch house. A dog barked in the distant fields. “That’s something that’s not talked about.” “A new Bromi is here. He knew you from the desert. He spoke of you to us. You saved his father from the dark sleep.” Clark kept his facial muscles slack to avoid looking suspicious. “Glad I could help him, but there are people who don’t like that part of me.” She nodded so hard her bonnet slipped down her broad forehead. “We never harm our own and you are one of us now. Be careful with Mr. Parker’s brother.” “How’s that?” Clark leaned his back against the fence beside her, drooping his arms over the top and hooking one of his boot heels into the wood. If anyone looked over, the individual might not realize they carried on a conversation. “Manager Parker has a brother who’s crazy. Doctor is crazy.” The woman wiggled her fingers in a jagged pattern in front of her face, the Bromi sign for mentally unsafe. “What’s he do?” The doctors could be cruel to Bromis; not many would treat the natives. “You smell it on him,” she hissed. The Bromi relied on spirits and herbs; the woman might be uncomfortable around modern medicine. “Thank you for the warning.” “Not even you, who befriends the dead, can protect against crazy.” The brick house’s side door slammed and the manager swaggered across the lawn with a paper in his hand. “You can read, can’t you, kid? You seem like a bright one.” “Yes, sir.” “If you know your sums, point that out too.” Mr. Parker slapped the note into Clark’s palm and at last shook his hand.
#
Clark parked his steamcycle along the dirt road through town. The doctor’s house, a three-story white clapboard with a veranda and four chimneys, had to be the nicest place for miles, at least the nicest place he’d seen all day. Trimmed bushes lined the porch and walkway, and a wrought-iron gate blocked off the property. The doctors Clark had known in the past kept shacks; they didn’t have time to build up a fancy life. He slung his leg off the ride and hung his helmet off the handlebars. A buggy rattled by in the road and two little boys stood across the street outside the general store. When he looked at them, they darted behind a rain barrel. He’d been like that once, Clark and Mabel, pretending the world was out to get them and hiding in near plain sight would save them. The world was after them and hiding didn’t help a lost soul. Clark tested the gate and it swung open – halleluiah for that, he wouldn’t have to try to call for attention from the road – so he shut it behind him and headed to the front door. A brass plaque read: Doctor of Ailments, Lionel Parker. Clark whistled; what other kind of doctor existed? He lifted the brass knocker shaped like a lion’s head – how fitting with the name Lionel – and let it smack the mahogany door. Clark stepped back and wiped his hands on his denim pants. No gloves. He pulled them off and stuck them into his jacket pockets. His hair would have to do with a quick brushing of his fingers through the shoulder-length yellow strands. The little boys laughed from the rain barrel. A cowboy on a horse clopped past. Clark knocked again. Brass glass, the doctor might not be home. How long would he stay around before he headed out to find the next ranch? Ranches were safe. Drifters wandered through on a regular basis, but workers in stores tended to stick around. People asked questions about folk they saw every day. Hired ranch hands stuck to themselves in the fields or barns. For sure, Mr. Parker wouldn’t have sent him if he’d known the doctor was out, but living miles apart, communication might be sparse between them. The door opened to an elderly Bromi woman in a black dress. “You need Doc Parker, suh?” “Um, yes. Thanks.” Clark cleared his throat. “His brother sent me.” Her dark eyes widened before she nodded. “Come, please. I get him for you.” Clark stepped into a hallway of red walls and polished wood. No pictures or mirrors offered decoration. She opened a left-hand door and slid aside for him to enter. He wondered how she could move so soundlessly until he looked down, noticing her bare feet beneath her skirt. Potpourri scented the room to a degree that made his throat clench. Like the hallway, naught adorned the room, apart from the smelly balls hanging from brass hooks in the ceiling. Two velveteen sofas faced each other. He wasn’t a patient or someone sent to fetch the doctor. Clark had no spare money for medicine, if he’d needed any. He hovered near the window, with its crimson curtains, to avoid touching anything he could dirty with filth from the road. What did the potpourri serve to hide? The door opened to a tall, thin man in a black suit…and a ghost with a missing leg. Clark bit back a groan. He should have known a doctor’s office would be riddled with the kind of dead who didn’t want to pass on. “My brother sent you?” A smooth accent toyed with his words. Clark held out his hand, but the doctor made no move to shake it. Not a shaking family, the two men. Clark dropped his arm down to his side. “I was looking for work out at the ranch and Manager Parker sent me here. He said you might have something for me to do. I know my words and sums.” He removed the letter from his jacket and held it out; the doctor did accept that. “I don’t plan on staying long, a month at the most.” The doctor flared his nostrils in his long nose as he read the note. “My brother enjoys the richness of life and the joys of people. I, unfortunately, do not share his feelings. I have seen too many men harm their brethren.” Clark licked his lips. Doctors had to want to help people. Why else would they invest in learning cures? “Sorry to waste your time, sir. I’ll get off.” On to the next town then. He might find a farm that would give him food for a few hours of work. Doctor Parker breathed through his lips. “Have you ever helped a physician? Do you know how to measure vials and sterilize instruments?” Hope lodged in Clark’s throat. “I can sterilize, sure, and if you show me with the vials, I can do that too.” “Those vials,” the ghost hooted from the doorway. “They’re tainted. Don’t get near those vials.” Clark caught himself before he could frown. Ghosts tended to struggle with truths. “I’ll keep you for a day or two,” said Doctor Parker. “I can pay you two cents an hour for odd jobs. If you work out, we can extend that period. I do amputations, son. I need strong hands to hold down the patient.” It would be lost limbs then. Clark forced himself to nod. “Is there a place I can hunker down? I normally stick to ranches, and they offer food and a roof.” The doctor snorted, crumpling the paper into his pocket. “I can’t offer you any rooms in here. I keep them for patients to stay in. You know what a hospital is, son?” “He thinks this place is a hospital,” the ghost hollered. “I’ve heard of army hospitals.” Clark nodded. Those places he avoided. Besides, he wasn’t salaried by the government. Only soldiers could go there. “The east has one in each main city. I want to bring the safety of the east out here. That’s where I’m from.” The ghost drew a line across his throat. “He came out here to torture us stragglers.” Whatever operation the doctor had done must have failed. Clark had seen it before, men who lost limbs in hopes of saving their lives, but passing on anyway. It had happened to a Tarnished Silver who had worked with his mother. She’d cut her hand on a razor, the wound had festered, and even though the doctor had removed it, she’d grown sicker and left the world in a week. “I can stay in a barn.” If Clark had to find lodging elsewhere, it would eat up his money like a brushfire. Doctor Parker touched his goatee, drawing the graying hairs into a tighter point. “My Bromi girl can get you some bedding. Stay in the stable if you want. I have scraps in the kitchen; eat that if you like, but if not, you’re buying your own.” “Thank you.” He’d lived on worse than scraps. “If it comes to you being my assistant, you’ll have to wear black. Hides the blood. I see you’re mostly in that now. If we get anyone staying here, I have a no shoes policy. Keeps things quiet for them.” “Yes, sir.” “Come on with me to the back room where I mix my medicines. I’ll get you to that and we’ll see how it goes.”
#
The ghost of a woman with no arms joined the one-legged ghost in the backroom. Clark bent over a table using eyedroppers and glass beakers to fill vials. Doctor Parker had scribbled the recipe on the back of his brother’s note, wrinkles and all. “Bad man,” the female shrieked. “Look at what he did to me arms!” Clark glanced toward the door. Doctor Parker had shut it, saying, “If a patient comes, you’re to stay out of sight.” “Sometimes operations are necessary,” Clark said. The green and blue liquids created a murky purple shade. “Not this one! Me husband called me an adulteress and off went me arms.” Clark looked up. “That can’t be the reason.” “Doc Parker’s known for taking the man’s side. Ask him.” She glared at the other ghost. The male scowled. “Sure, you got a problem and you pay enough, Doc Parker will help.” Clark clenched his hand around the glass vial. That couldn’t be true. Anyone in the west knew some doctors wanted money for medicine, then didn’t deliver more than dyed water or sugar cubes, but he’d never heard tell of one amputating limbs for perversion.“Doc’s crazy,” the female ghost continued. “He has his own daughter locked up. Real bright girl. Sad state.”Clark pictured a shed with a girl pounding against a padlocked door, and his skin crawled. “What do you mean?”“The room upstairs, end of the hall,” she exclaimed. “He won’t let her out. He’ll probably experiment on her next. See if she grows back a tongue.”
#
Clark crouched outside the room indicated by the one-legged ghost. He held his breath as he worked his tools into the lock. If anyone came, the ghosts had better warn him. If it weren’t for their nagging, he wouldn’t have bothered skulking around the house. A girl locked in a shed was one thing; a girl locked in a room was another. She might have a disease. Clark chuckled under his breath; his abilities had better keep him from catching it. The lock clicked and he slid the toolkit back into his jacket pocket. Easing the door open enough to peer through, he studied a white wall and plain table with a single chair. Not really girl friendly, from what he’d seen. Sure, he knew more about men on the run, but the soiled doves who’d worked with his mother had treasured knick-knacks. His mother would have had a table cloth, a candlestick, maybe a cushion on that chair. He’d drawn a picture for her once with a hunk of charcoal and a meat paper. She’d stuck it to her wall on an old nail and never taken it down, even though neither of them could remember after a few years what the blob was meant to be. Clark pushed the door open a bit more, and froze. Against the opposite wall, a young girl sat on a cot beside a window, paper taped over the glass as if to obscure the image. Lank brown hair hung down her back, oily and matted, and she wore a shapeless gray shift. He glanced back into the hallway before he darted inside and shut the door, in case the Bromi slave or doctor wandered by. “Um, hullo.” He cleared his throat and shifted his stance. “Are you… the doctor’s daughter?” She nodded. “I’m Brenda. Father didn’t send you, did he?” Dark circles lined her eyes a shade grayer than her linen shift. “A fella your pa worked on told me to find you here.” She didn’t need to know the fella was dead, or that he’d only discovered her after haunting the halls. “I can help you leave. We can go now.” So much for having a good job for a day or two. “No, I can’t.” An Eastern accent tinged her voice. “I’m sorry, but I can’t, sir.” The “sir” title didn’t really fit with him, made his skin crawl. “Are you sick?” He fought to keep from wrinkling his nose. “I’m not sick. Father said if I tried to leave, he’d never let me find my sister. As long as he’s got me, he’ll keep her safe.” Clark almost growled. Doctor Parker was the monster the ghosts had hinted at. “We’ll go find your sister then. I can’t leave you locked in here.” She stood and wobbled; the arms and legs poking from her clothes showed skin and bones, as malnourished as some of the thieves he’d run across in the desert. “If he finds me gone, he’ll hurt her. I know he will.” Her lower lip trembled. She couldn’t be more than fourteen-years-old at the most. “Brass glass,” Clark swore. Brenda had a point in that. “I’ll find out where your sister is. We’ll get both of you away.” “He’ll lock you up, too,” she said. “The man’s crazy. I’m safer in here. It’s better to be safe.”
#
Clark spread the new leather cover over the medical text and glanced at Doctor Parker from the corners of his eyes. The doctor scribbled into a notebook, a gaslamp illuminating his work. Clark set the tome back on the bookshelf. “Have you been in the west long, sir?” The doctor hesitated, his stylus hovering above the paper. “Long enough. I am needed here. People need medicine.” People who wanted their enemies to suffer. “Thanks for doing the good deeds.” The words swelled in Clark’s throat as if to choke him. Doctor Parker nodded as he returned to his notebook. Clark pulled down another tome to cover it in the new binding. “Before I got here, I heard you had a daughter. I haven’t seen her around. A little girl,” he added, in case the doctor thought he liked to sniff around pretty skirts. Doctor Parker set down his stylus, the movements slow and deliberate, his gaze on the office’s only window. “I have no children.” Liar. “That’s enough work for today. It’s getting late and I’ve already sent the slave off for the night.” He turned in his chair to face Clark. “Don’t ask questions here, boy, or this arrangement won’t work out.” #
Something shook Clark awake; he clamped his hands down on the offender and he shoved. Maybe he should have opted for the shed, but he’d taken the doctor up on his offer of a pallet in the kitchen. A female gasped; a single candle sent a yellow glow around her shape. “Brenda?” Clark reached for the pistol he’d left on his belt. When he’d first started sleeping with it out in the desert, it had jammed into his side each time he’d moved, but he’d grown used to slumber in one position.“I did it, sir. I snuck out. The lock on my door’s faulty and Father never fixed it. Did you know she’s here? My sister’s here.” Brenda’s eyes seemed to glow in the dark of the kitchen. “He’s got her locked in too and he told her the same thing, about behaving so nothing happens to me.” Her voice rose with each word and Clark cringed.“Hush!” If she didn’t keep quiet—The door to the kitchen smacked into the wall and Doctor Parker stormed inside, his robe flapping around his legs. Brenda screamed and yanked at Clark’s hands as though to pull him up, but her father caught her around the waist and shoved her back against him, slapping a cloth over her mouth. She screamed against the rag, slashing at him with her fingernails and kicking with her bare heels.The doctor muttered as he dragged her into the hallway, her shrieks growing quieter. Clark gripped the pallet of old linens, his heart pounding. He’d seen something he shouldn’t have. Doctor Parker would have to explain it away and send Clark off before he witnessed more. “You.” Brenda Parker appeared beside the stove with hollow, black eyes, and marks around her mouth and neck. “You’re dead.” Clark stood, kicking off a blanket, before Doctor Parker could return. She touched her lips. “Chloroform can do that, you know.” Brenda lowered her hand to her belly. “Go get my sister. My father’s crazy. Don’t let him hurt Maura, please.” Clark’s muscles tightened; Doctor Parker knew what he was about. Brenda wouldn’t have been an accident. The doctor would return to deal with Clark. “That’s how you found out about me. Ghosts told you.” She floated higher before sinking back to the kitchen floor. “Send Maura east. Our grandparents are there and Mother.” How calm she acted for a ghost. Usually the newly dead screamed at him until they realized he worked better when he understood. “I’ll get Maura.” She’d been alive in front of him, but he hadn’t managed to save her. “You can be with your Mother now.” Brenda recoiled. “Mother’s not dead. Father made her work as his assistant and she threatened to tell on him for what he did to his patients. He put her up in Wade Asylum and whisked the two of us out here.” “Does your uncle over at the ranch know about all this?” “They’re grave diggers together. My uncle used to send parts to my father when we lived in the east.” Bile rose in Clark’s throat. Sure, that earned a few dollars and he’d seen people decimating graves for an eyeball or brain, but he had enough of the dead on a daily basis without dealing with them in the dirt at night. The kitchen door swung again – that thing was going to tear off its hinges if the doctor wasn’t careful. Lionel Parker barreled through with his hands clenched into fists. “Get out. You’re not needed.” He fumbled in his jacket pocket, the item thrown on over a thin nightshirt, and threw coins at Clark’s feet. Clark pulled the pistol from his holster and aimed it at Lionel’s chest. “You killed your daughter.”The doctor swore as he patted his body, as if searching for a weapon. “I would never do that. Get out of here, you and your lies!”Clark pulled the trigger and a hole blossomed with blood in the center of his chest. The doctor gulped as she stumbled backwards into the wall and slumped.“You killed him,” Brenda said.“Yup.” Maybe his ghost would appear for the other spirits to tear into him.Clark glanced at the door leading to the backyard, but no shouts came from outside. Someone would find the doctor and Clark didn’t want to be arrested for murder, no matter how warranted. If the men in town liked the doctor to take care of their troubles, including upset wives, then they wouldn’t care about a deceased daughter. Clark fastened his pistol into his holster. “We’ll free the Bromi so she can get a head start, and then we’ll nab your sister.”
#
“This one.” Brenda slapped her hand against the door, but it slid through and she grimaced. “Did you see my body down there on the parlor table? What do you suppose he wanted to do with me?” Clark shrugged; his tongue seemed to have thickened past speech. He worked his picking kit into the lock and waited until it clicked to turn the knob. “She should be in here,” Brenda said. “I called to her through the door and she answered. She was crying. That’s when I got you.” That would also be when Lionel Parker overheard Brenda’s escape. Clark stood, his gas lamp in hand, and entered the bedroom that reeked of mothballs. A little girl huddled on a cot similar to Brenda’s. “That’s her!” Brenda soared over to the child, whose black hair hung loose. “Maura?” Clark lifted the lamp higher so she could see him. “We need to leave, Maura.” The little girl rubbed the back of her hand across her nose. “Where’s Brenda?” “I’m right here, sweetie!” Clark licked his dry lips. The child had lived through imprisonment; she couldn’t be reduced to lies. “Brenda’s gone. Your father got her.” If she were Mabel, he would have hugged her and she would have wept, made up some statements about feeling strong. Maura was a stranger, though. She pressed a pillow against her face and her shoulders trembled. “Brenda gave me directions to your grandparents in the east,” Clark said. “I’ll send you to them. They’ll take care of you.” “Mama?” She lifted her face, tears on her cheeks. “Right. She’ll be there too.” “But not Brenda.” “Not Brenda.” The poor chit had to be only seven or eight. “I’ll be with her the whole way,” Brenda interjected. “She’ll be with you in spirit.” Clark eased the pillow away from her. “Do you have anything to take with you?” Maura shook her head, lips parted. Like Brenda, she wore a sack dress, minus the corset. “We’ll find your father’s money,” Clark said. “Then we can get you a train ticket and something warm to wear. Some food. I’ll wire ahead if we can find the address for your grandparents.” “I remember the address.” Brenda floated in front of him. “I want you to take some of the money by way of thanks. It would be the first time a ghost paid him for help. Usually they screamed and vanished. Brass glass, maybe it would be the last time he had to help a ghost. Clark laughed. Nah, his curse wouldn’t let him go that easily.
###What’s a festival without games and prizes? You can win this awesome spyglass necklace and be able to see across the desert, in case a rival gang is hot on your trail. a Rafflecopter giveawayCheck out my website for contests related to my books, and you can read the first three chapters of TREASURE DARKLY: http://www.jordanelizabethmierek.com/... more steampunk? The clockwork adventures continue with GEARS OF BRASS, a steampunk anthology featuring TREASURE DARKLY’s own Amethyst Treasure.
The Summer Steampunk Festival might end soon, but you can return to Hedlund in September for the release of BORN OF TREASURE, the sequel to TREASURE DARKLY. Twice the romance, thrice the ghosts, and a heap of clockwork inventions.
As a special addition to the summer steampunk festival, TREASURE DARKLY is on sale for 99 cents this week only! Check out Amazonfor the deal.
Hedlund is home to Clark Treasure, the rogue star of TREASURE DARKLY, a young adult romance set in a steampunk Wild West world. Join him here in Hedlund while wearing your best cowboy boots and goggles. For three days only (July 1st, 2nd, and 3rd), TREASURE DARKLY is on sale as an Amazon ebook for just 99 cents. That’s a quite a steal, and Clark knows a lot about stealing, having swiped a bottle of what he thought was absinthe, but the green liquid actually gave him the ability to save the already deceased. TREASURE DARKLY picks up when Clark finds the father he never knew – a millionaire rancher meeting his illegitimate son? Ut oh – but what happens while Clark is on the run from the army and its captain who seeks to use him for his newfound power? Check out the following short story for an adventure featuring Clark Treasure in all his bad boy glory.###A Treasure TaleBy Jordan Elizabeth
Clark extended his hand for a shake, but the manager of Arvay Ranch shook his head. Not a good sign, that. Clark pulled off his glove, the leather worn almost clear through in the knuckles, and stretched out again, but the manager rocked back on his boot heels. “You’re an honest looking kid. I like that about you.” The manager turned his head to spit tobacco juice into the dirt. “We’re just mighty filled up here for the time being.” “I’m willing to do any job, sir. I can wrangle and rope. Work the fields. I know my way with a saw.” Brass glass, he’d be eager to muck out the outhouse if it came to that. His pockets didn’t jingle with coins as loudly as they used to. He’d had to leave his last job at a ranch further south – a good position where he looked after horses, when the army sniffed too close, and he hadn’t dared stop until now. “I can do housework too. I’ve trained with butlers.” He’d seen them, in the fancy ranch houses. That sort of work seemed to mean politeness and servitude, and not much else. The manager jammed his hands into the pockets of his denim slacks and narrowed his gaze at the Arvay Ranch. The Bromi woman who’d fetched him from the “Big House,” as she’d called it, stood by a fence with her head bowed. “Good lookin’ ranch,” Clark said. “Smaller than some I’ve seen, but hearty. A fellow can tell you folk love the land here.” Managers didn’t appreciate sugar-coating. If a man told it like it was, he got further with those who loved work, and Arvay Ranch shone with crisp paint and clean yards. “Place looks run well. Looks like your crop is peaches?” The manager nodded, tugging at the red bandana at his throat. “We are pretty booked here. Don’t really hire a lot of outside folk. You know what, though. My brother’s the doctor in town and I’m certain he could use help.” The image of a physician’s saw biting through a man’s gangrene-ridden leg pierced Clark’s mind and he forced his lips to remain in a line. He’d done worse in life. Brass glass, he’d helped the midwife back in Tangled Wire for spare pennies. Maybe he’d be able to use his ability to save a few lives. “I’d be grateful, sir. I can’t stay forever, just passing through, but I’d appreciate the job for the time being.” “I’ll write you a letter and some directions. Feel free to get yourself a drink at the well.” Clark pulled his glove back on and headed toward the pump near the shed. Sunlight beat against his neck, the skin bared by his ponytail, as he worked the brass handle. Water flowed out in clear spurts into a bucket on the grass. He used the hanging ladle to scoop out the liquid, frigid from the earth, and sighed. Nothing beat fresh water from a pump, not canteens or streams. Streams were good, but the water had a grittiness to it that stuck in his teeth. When his stomach felt thick with water, he sidled back toward his steamcycle, wiping the back of his mouth on the sleeve of his leather jacket. The Bromi woman stared at him while she plucked at the stained apron tied over her calico dress. Clark lifted his hand in a wave. If he spoke to her in her tongue and the manager returned, he might not be so willing to get him the job. “I know who you are,” she said. Talking in her tongue might not be so devastating then. Some ranches treated their Bromi with humanity. “I’m looking for work—” “Those who die live again for you.” She meant it in that way then. Ice crept over Clark’s skin and he folded his arms to appear nonchalant as he glanced at the ranch house. A dog barked in the distant fields. “That’s something that’s not talked about.” “A new Bromi is here. He knew you from the desert. He spoke of you to us. You saved his father from the dark sleep.” Clark kept his facial muscles slack to avoid looking suspicious. “Glad I could help him, but there are people who don’t like that part of me.” She nodded so hard her bonnet slipped down her broad forehead. “We never harm our own and you are one of us now. Be careful with Mr. Parker’s brother.” “How’s that?” Clark leaned his back against the fence beside her, drooping his arms over the top and hooking one of his boot heels into the wood. If anyone looked over, the individual might not realize they carried on a conversation. “Manager Parker has a brother who’s crazy. Doctor is crazy.” The woman wiggled her fingers in a jagged pattern in front of her face, the Bromi sign for mentally unsafe. “What’s he do?” The doctors could be cruel to Bromis; not many would treat the natives. “You smell it on him,” she hissed. The Bromi relied on spirits and herbs; the woman might be uncomfortable around modern medicine. “Thank you for the warning.” “Not even you, who befriends the dead, can protect against crazy.” The brick house’s side door slammed and the manager swaggered across the lawn with a paper in his hand. “You can read, can’t you, kid? You seem like a bright one.” “Yes, sir.” “If you know your sums, point that out too.” Mr. Parker slapped the note into Clark’s palm and at last shook his hand.
#
Clark parked his steamcycle along the dirt road through town. The doctor’s house, a three-story white clapboard with a veranda and four chimneys, had to be the nicest place for miles, at least the nicest place he’d seen all day. Trimmed bushes lined the porch and walkway, and a wrought-iron gate blocked off the property. The doctors Clark had known in the past kept shacks; they didn’t have time to build up a fancy life. He slung his leg off the ride and hung his helmet off the handlebars. A buggy rattled by in the road and two little boys stood across the street outside the general store. When he looked at them, they darted behind a rain barrel. He’d been like that once, Clark and Mabel, pretending the world was out to get them and hiding in near plain sight would save them. The world was after them and hiding didn’t help a lost soul. Clark tested the gate and it swung open – halleluiah for that, he wouldn’t have to try to call for attention from the road – so he shut it behind him and headed to the front door. A brass plaque read: Doctor of Ailments, Lionel Parker. Clark whistled; what other kind of doctor existed? He lifted the brass knocker shaped like a lion’s head – how fitting with the name Lionel – and let it smack the mahogany door. Clark stepped back and wiped his hands on his denim pants. No gloves. He pulled them off and stuck them into his jacket pockets. His hair would have to do with a quick brushing of his fingers through the shoulder-length yellow strands. The little boys laughed from the rain barrel. A cowboy on a horse clopped past. Clark knocked again. Brass glass, the doctor might not be home. How long would he stay around before he headed out to find the next ranch? Ranches were safe. Drifters wandered through on a regular basis, but workers in stores tended to stick around. People asked questions about folk they saw every day. Hired ranch hands stuck to themselves in the fields or barns. For sure, Mr. Parker wouldn’t have sent him if he’d known the doctor was out, but living miles apart, communication might be sparse between them. The door opened to an elderly Bromi woman in a black dress. “You need Doc Parker, suh?” “Um, yes. Thanks.” Clark cleared his throat. “His brother sent me.” Her dark eyes widened before she nodded. “Come, please. I get him for you.” Clark stepped into a hallway of red walls and polished wood. No pictures or mirrors offered decoration. She opened a left-hand door and slid aside for him to enter. He wondered how she could move so soundlessly until he looked down, noticing her bare feet beneath her skirt. Potpourri scented the room to a degree that made his throat clench. Like the hallway, naught adorned the room, apart from the smelly balls hanging from brass hooks in the ceiling. Two velveteen sofas faced each other. He wasn’t a patient or someone sent to fetch the doctor. Clark had no spare money for medicine, if he’d needed any. He hovered near the window, with its crimson curtains, to avoid touching anything he could dirty with filth from the road. What did the potpourri serve to hide? The door opened to a tall, thin man in a black suit…and a ghost with a missing leg. Clark bit back a groan. He should have known a doctor’s office would be riddled with the kind of dead who didn’t want to pass on. “My brother sent you?” A smooth accent toyed with his words. Clark held out his hand, but the doctor made no move to shake it. Not a shaking family, the two men. Clark dropped his arm down to his side. “I was looking for work out at the ranch and Manager Parker sent me here. He said you might have something for me to do. I know my words and sums.” He removed the letter from his jacket and held it out; the doctor did accept that. “I don’t plan on staying long, a month at the most.” The doctor flared his nostrils in his long nose as he read the note. “My brother enjoys the richness of life and the joys of people. I, unfortunately, do not share his feelings. I have seen too many men harm their brethren.” Clark licked his lips. Doctors had to want to help people. Why else would they invest in learning cures? “Sorry to waste your time, sir. I’ll get off.” On to the next town then. He might find a farm that would give him food for a few hours of work. Doctor Parker breathed through his lips. “Have you ever helped a physician? Do you know how to measure vials and sterilize instruments?” Hope lodged in Clark’s throat. “I can sterilize, sure, and if you show me with the vials, I can do that too.” “Those vials,” the ghost hooted from the doorway. “They’re tainted. Don’t get near those vials.” Clark caught himself before he could frown. Ghosts tended to struggle with truths. “I’ll keep you for a day or two,” said Doctor Parker. “I can pay you two cents an hour for odd jobs. If you work out, we can extend that period. I do amputations, son. I need strong hands to hold down the patient.” It would be lost limbs then. Clark forced himself to nod. “Is there a place I can hunker down? I normally stick to ranches, and they offer food and a roof.” The doctor snorted, crumpling the paper into his pocket. “I can’t offer you any rooms in here. I keep them for patients to stay in. You know what a hospital is, son?” “He thinks this place is a hospital,” the ghost hollered. “I’ve heard of army hospitals.” Clark nodded. Those places he avoided. Besides, he wasn’t salaried by the government. Only soldiers could go there. “The east has one in each main city. I want to bring the safety of the east out here. That’s where I’m from.” The ghost drew a line across his throat. “He came out here to torture us stragglers.” Whatever operation the doctor had done must have failed. Clark had seen it before, men who lost limbs in hopes of saving their lives, but passing on anyway. It had happened to a Tarnished Silver who had worked with his mother. She’d cut her hand on a razor, the wound had festered, and even though the doctor had removed it, she’d grown sicker and left the world in a week. “I can stay in a barn.” If Clark had to find lodging elsewhere, it would eat up his money like a brushfire. Doctor Parker touched his goatee, drawing the graying hairs into a tighter point. “My Bromi girl can get you some bedding. Stay in the stable if you want. I have scraps in the kitchen; eat that if you like, but if not, you’re buying your own.” “Thank you.” He’d lived on worse than scraps. “If it comes to you being my assistant, you’ll have to wear black. Hides the blood. I see you’re mostly in that now. If we get anyone staying here, I have a no shoes policy. Keeps things quiet for them.” “Yes, sir.” “Come on with me to the back room where I mix my medicines. I’ll get you to that and we’ll see how it goes.”
#
The ghost of a woman with no arms joined the one-legged ghost in the backroom. Clark bent over a table using eyedroppers and glass beakers to fill vials. Doctor Parker had scribbled the recipe on the back of his brother’s note, wrinkles and all. “Bad man,” the female shrieked. “Look at what he did to me arms!” Clark glanced toward the door. Doctor Parker had shut it, saying, “If a patient comes, you’re to stay out of sight.” “Sometimes operations are necessary,” Clark said. The green and blue liquids created a murky purple shade. “Not this one! Me husband called me an adulteress and off went me arms.” Clark looked up. “That can’t be the reason.” “Doc Parker’s known for taking the man’s side. Ask him.” She glared at the other ghost. The male scowled. “Sure, you got a problem and you pay enough, Doc Parker will help.” Clark clenched his hand around the glass vial. That couldn’t be true. Anyone in the west knew some doctors wanted money for medicine, then didn’t deliver more than dyed water or sugar cubes, but he’d never heard tell of one amputating limbs for perversion.“Doc’s crazy,” the female ghost continued. “He has his own daughter locked up. Real bright girl. Sad state.”Clark pictured a shed with a girl pounding against a padlocked door, and his skin crawled. “What do you mean?”“The room upstairs, end of the hall,” she exclaimed. “He won’t let her out. He’ll probably experiment on her next. See if she grows back a tongue.”
#
Clark crouched outside the room indicated by the one-legged ghost. He held his breath as he worked his tools into the lock. If anyone came, the ghosts had better warn him. If it weren’t for their nagging, he wouldn’t have bothered skulking around the house. A girl locked in a shed was one thing; a girl locked in a room was another. She might have a disease. Clark chuckled under his breath; his abilities had better keep him from catching it. The lock clicked and he slid the toolkit back into his jacket pocket. Easing the door open enough to peer through, he studied a white wall and plain table with a single chair. Not really girl friendly, from what he’d seen. Sure, he knew more about men on the run, but the soiled doves who’d worked with his mother had treasured knick-knacks. His mother would have had a table cloth, a candlestick, maybe a cushion on that chair. He’d drawn a picture for her once with a hunk of charcoal and a meat paper. She’d stuck it to her wall on an old nail and never taken it down, even though neither of them could remember after a few years what the blob was meant to be. Clark pushed the door open a bit more, and froze. Against the opposite wall, a young girl sat on a cot beside a window, paper taped over the glass as if to obscure the image. Lank brown hair hung down her back, oily and matted, and she wore a shapeless gray shift. He glanced back into the hallway before he darted inside and shut the door, in case the Bromi slave or doctor wandered by. “Um, hullo.” He cleared his throat and shifted his stance. “Are you… the doctor’s daughter?” She nodded. “I’m Brenda. Father didn’t send you, did he?” Dark circles lined her eyes a shade grayer than her linen shift. “A fella your pa worked on told me to find you here.” She didn’t need to know the fella was dead, or that he’d only discovered her after haunting the halls. “I can help you leave. We can go now.” So much for having a good job for a day or two. “No, I can’t.” An Eastern accent tinged her voice. “I’m sorry, but I can’t, sir.” The “sir” title didn’t really fit with him, made his skin crawl. “Are you sick?” He fought to keep from wrinkling his nose. “I’m not sick. Father said if I tried to leave, he’d never let me find my sister. As long as he’s got me, he’ll keep her safe.” Clark almost growled. Doctor Parker was the monster the ghosts had hinted at. “We’ll go find your sister then. I can’t leave you locked in here.” She stood and wobbled; the arms and legs poking from her clothes showed skin and bones, as malnourished as some of the thieves he’d run across in the desert. “If he finds me gone, he’ll hurt her. I know he will.” Her lower lip trembled. She couldn’t be more than fourteen-years-old at the most. “Brass glass,” Clark swore. Brenda had a point in that. “I’ll find out where your sister is. We’ll get both of you away.” “He’ll lock you up, too,” she said. “The man’s crazy. I’m safer in here. It’s better to be safe.”
#
Clark spread the new leather cover over the medical text and glanced at Doctor Parker from the corners of his eyes. The doctor scribbled into a notebook, a gaslamp illuminating his work. Clark set the tome back on the bookshelf. “Have you been in the west long, sir?” The doctor hesitated, his stylus hovering above the paper. “Long enough. I am needed here. People need medicine.” People who wanted their enemies to suffer. “Thanks for doing the good deeds.” The words swelled in Clark’s throat as if to choke him. Doctor Parker nodded as he returned to his notebook. Clark pulled down another tome to cover it in the new binding. “Before I got here, I heard you had a daughter. I haven’t seen her around. A little girl,” he added, in case the doctor thought he liked to sniff around pretty skirts. Doctor Parker set down his stylus, the movements slow and deliberate, his gaze on the office’s only window. “I have no children.” Liar. “That’s enough work for today. It’s getting late and I’ve already sent the slave off for the night.” He turned in his chair to face Clark. “Don’t ask questions here, boy, or this arrangement won’t work out.” #
Something shook Clark awake; he clamped his hands down on the offender and he shoved. Maybe he should have opted for the shed, but he’d taken the doctor up on his offer of a pallet in the kitchen. A female gasped; a single candle sent a yellow glow around her shape. “Brenda?” Clark reached for the pistol he’d left on his belt. When he’d first started sleeping with it out in the desert, it had jammed into his side each time he’d moved, but he’d grown used to slumber in one position.“I did it, sir. I snuck out. The lock on my door’s faulty and Father never fixed it. Did you know she’s here? My sister’s here.” Brenda’s eyes seemed to glow in the dark of the kitchen. “He’s got her locked in too and he told her the same thing, about behaving so nothing happens to me.” Her voice rose with each word and Clark cringed.“Hush!” If she didn’t keep quiet—The door to the kitchen smacked into the wall and Doctor Parker stormed inside, his robe flapping around his legs. Brenda screamed and yanked at Clark’s hands as though to pull him up, but her father caught her around the waist and shoved her back against him, slapping a cloth over her mouth. She screamed against the rag, slashing at him with her fingernails and kicking with her bare heels.The doctor muttered as he dragged her into the hallway, her shrieks growing quieter. Clark gripped the pallet of old linens, his heart pounding. He’d seen something he shouldn’t have. Doctor Parker would have to explain it away and send Clark off before he witnessed more. “You.” Brenda Parker appeared beside the stove with hollow, black eyes, and marks around her mouth and neck. “You’re dead.” Clark stood, kicking off a blanket, before Doctor Parker could return. She touched her lips. “Chloroform can do that, you know.” Brenda lowered her hand to her belly. “Go get my sister. My father’s crazy. Don’t let him hurt Maura, please.” Clark’s muscles tightened; Doctor Parker knew what he was about. Brenda wouldn’t have been an accident. The doctor would return to deal with Clark. “That’s how you found out about me. Ghosts told you.” She floated higher before sinking back to the kitchen floor. “Send Maura east. Our grandparents are there and Mother.” How calm she acted for a ghost. Usually the newly dead screamed at him until they realized he worked better when he understood. “I’ll get Maura.” She’d been alive in front of him, but he hadn’t managed to save her. “You can be with your Mother now.” Brenda recoiled. “Mother’s not dead. Father made her work as his assistant and she threatened to tell on him for what he did to his patients. He put her up in Wade Asylum and whisked the two of us out here.” “Does your uncle over at the ranch know about all this?” “They’re grave diggers together. My uncle used to send parts to my father when we lived in the east.” Bile rose in Clark’s throat. Sure, that earned a few dollars and he’d seen people decimating graves for an eyeball or brain, but he had enough of the dead on a daily basis without dealing with them in the dirt at night. The kitchen door swung again – that thing was going to tear off its hinges if the doctor wasn’t careful. Lionel Parker barreled through with his hands clenched into fists. “Get out. You’re not needed.” He fumbled in his jacket pocket, the item thrown on over a thin nightshirt, and threw coins at Clark’s feet. Clark pulled the pistol from his holster and aimed it at Lionel’s chest. “You killed your daughter.”The doctor swore as he patted his body, as if searching for a weapon. “I would never do that. Get out of here, you and your lies!”Clark pulled the trigger and a hole blossomed with blood in the center of his chest. The doctor gulped as she stumbled backwards into the wall and slumped.“You killed him,” Brenda said.“Yup.” Maybe his ghost would appear for the other spirits to tear into him.Clark glanced at the door leading to the backyard, but no shouts came from outside. Someone would find the doctor and Clark didn’t want to be arrested for murder, no matter how warranted. If the men in town liked the doctor to take care of their troubles, including upset wives, then they wouldn’t care about a deceased daughter. Clark fastened his pistol into his holster. “We’ll free the Bromi so she can get a head start, and then we’ll nab your sister.”
#
“This one.” Brenda slapped her hand against the door, but it slid through and she grimaced. “Did you see my body down there on the parlor table? What do you suppose he wanted to do with me?” Clark shrugged; his tongue seemed to have thickened past speech. He worked his picking kit into the lock and waited until it clicked to turn the knob. “She should be in here,” Brenda said. “I called to her through the door and she answered. She was crying. That’s when I got you.” That would also be when Lionel Parker overheard Brenda’s escape. Clark stood, his gas lamp in hand, and entered the bedroom that reeked of mothballs. A little girl huddled on a cot similar to Brenda’s. “That’s her!” Brenda soared over to the child, whose black hair hung loose. “Maura?” Clark lifted the lamp higher so she could see him. “We need to leave, Maura.” The little girl rubbed the back of her hand across her nose. “Where’s Brenda?” “I’m right here, sweetie!” Clark licked his dry lips. The child had lived through imprisonment; she couldn’t be reduced to lies. “Brenda’s gone. Your father got her.” If she were Mabel, he would have hugged her and she would have wept, made up some statements about feeling strong. Maura was a stranger, though. She pressed a pillow against her face and her shoulders trembled. “Brenda gave me directions to your grandparents in the east,” Clark said. “I’ll send you to them. They’ll take care of you.” “Mama?” She lifted her face, tears on her cheeks. “Right. She’ll be there too.” “But not Brenda.” “Not Brenda.” The poor chit had to be only seven or eight. “I’ll be with her the whole way,” Brenda interjected. “She’ll be with you in spirit.” Clark eased the pillow away from her. “Do you have anything to take with you?” Maura shook her head, lips parted. Like Brenda, she wore a sack dress, minus the corset. “We’ll find your father’s money,” Clark said. “Then we can get you a train ticket and something warm to wear. Some food. I’ll wire ahead if we can find the address for your grandparents.” “I remember the address.” Brenda floated in front of him. “I want you to take some of the money by way of thanks. It would be the first time a ghost paid him for help. Usually they screamed and vanished. Brass glass, maybe it would be the last time he had to help a ghost. Clark laughed. Nah, his curse wouldn’t let him go that easily.
###What’s a festival without games and prizes? You can win this awesome spyglass necklace and be able to see across the desert, in case a rival gang is hot on your trail. a Rafflecopter giveawayCheck out my website for contests related to my books, and you can read the first three chapters of TREASURE DARKLY: http://www.jordanelizabethmierek.com/... more steampunk? The clockwork adventures continue with GEARS OF BRASS, a steampunk anthology featuring TREASURE DARKLY’s own Amethyst Treasure.
The Summer Steampunk Festival might end soon, but you can return to Hedlund in September for the release of BORN OF TREASURE, the sequel to TREASURE DARKLY. Twice the romance, thrice the ghosts, and a heap of clockwork inventions.
As a special addition to the summer steampunk festival, TREASURE DARKLY is on sale for 99 cents this week only! Check out Amazonfor the deal.
May 27, 2015
Announcing: Black Oracle by MIchael Cristiano out now!
Humans, you are not alone.
"Joachim is a hunter in the jungle of a post-apocalyptic Earth. Though generations have passed since the Great Death, something has evolved in the trees beyond the giant glowing mushrooms, mutants that want to see human entrails spread along the jungle floor.
And now they've taken Joachim’s wife.
To get her back, Joachim will have to give the leader of these demons something in return: immortality. A creature knows when he is going to die, after all. Plunged into a world of magic and darkness, Joachim must find the only woman who knows where the ingredients are. She is a prophetess known as the Black Oracle living in the realm of Zalm, but she’s a little preoccupied at the moment. She leads a rebellion against the ruthless High Council, and when Joachim seeks her out, he too finds himself consumed by her struggle.
In a story of betrayal, prophecy, and bloodshed, Joachim has ten days to retrieve the ingredients and return to Earth all while evading the High Council’s army, one that wants the Black Oracle and her associates killed — Joachim included."
“The Black Oracle” is a New Adult post-apocalyptic fantasy novel, and it is available now. You can pick up an eBook copy on Amazon here or a paperback copy here . Check out the excerpt below and join the adventure today.
“Darcie had been sitting in the doorway when he returned to the village not yet two evenings ago. The day had been hot, and Joachim was sweaty and dirty and tired. He lowered his rucksack, and she closed the book she had been reading, one from Baruch’s Old Earth library, like all the others.
“Welcome home.”
He’d spent the last six weeks in the arms of the jungle, the cold, dark, unforgiving wilderness that never truly felt right even on the most beautiful of days. Joachim had hunted in those trees all his life, but nothing compared to Darcie. In her eyes, he was home.
“How did the great hunters fare?” she teased. “Did you take down three alligators this time? How about an elephant? Will we have enough elephant meat to last us until next summer?”
“Not quite,” Joachim replied.
She stood with her hands on her waist. From the back, someone would think that she was upset if not for the expression on her face. She watched him from under her brow, her chin turned slightly downward. She smiled.
“I missed you,” he whispered as he snuck his hands onto her hips.
“No, you didn’t.” She smirked. “You and Ben and Trent are like children out there—like young boys. And the jungle is your little paradise.”
“What if I told you that you are my paradise?” He kissed her neck.
She snorted. “Oh, please. Think you can just walk in here and woo me with some flattery?”
“I know I can.”
Darcie’s arms snaked around him. Her lips were as intoxicating as barley sweetened in the sun, and soon, he lifted her off of her feet and pressed her against the wall.
“Joachim!” she exclaimed. “The neighbors.”
“There’s no one watching.”
She laughed and hit him lightly on the chest.
“How was everything while I was gone?” Joachim asked.
“Fine,” Darcie said. “Boring.” They went inside the dwelling. There was simmering jackalope stew on the stove. “Ophelia’s ceiling had a leak last week,” Darcie continued. “A big rainstorm pushed through here, and it ripped some of the roof off. Did you get a storm out there in the jungle too?”
“Yes,” Joachim said. “I’m not even sure my rucksack is dried all the way through yet.”
He dipped his finger into the stew. It tasted salty.
“And how are you?” he asked.
Darcie played with a lock of her dark hair and bit her bottom lip. She reminded him of the day they married. There had been no parent left to walk Darcie down the aisle, so she walked herself. The whole time she eyed him: shy yet eager. Almost childlike.
“I’m pregnant,” she said. He almost dropped his hand back into the stew. A little boy, she had just called him, alluding to his exhilaration whenever he entered the jungle. And Darcie was right: he often became so energized that he did feel like a little boy—and he felt like one again now. He felt like laughing, like scooping Darcie up and twirling her around. He could feel life bursting through his chest: ravenous innocence and maddening excitement. They’d been yearning for a child for so long.
“You are?”
“I found out into the second week of the hunt.” She touched his face. “I skipped my cycle, and I told Jolyne. She ran a test and told me I was expecting.”
Joachim cried. The hunter was supposed to be brave, but being brave sometimes meant having courage to show his emotions. He wept for her, smiling and laughing through the tears, and she cried too.
She spent the night tight to his chest and coiled in his arms like a huntress in camouflaging paints, like a butterfly in a cocoon.
Like she was protected by a shield.
Joachim wished she were there for him to protect now. She hadn’t mentioned the creatures that evening, and he doubted she even knew that they had come while he was away. But now she was gone, and so he had to be too. If he waited too long, the creatures would keep her away from him forever.
If she wasn’t already.”
Michael Cristiano is a Canadian writer. His relentless obsession with writing began long before he could spell the words 'relentless obsession'. Growing up in endless suburban sprawl, he spent most of his childhood pretending to be Harry Potter and attempting to get published by the age of thirteen. When he isn’t writing or reading, he can be found planning his next backpacking trip around the world. He is a recent graduate from the University of Toronto with studies in Foreign Language and Linguistics. Previously, he attended a Regional Arts high school where he majored in drama. He is fond of all things dramatic. Michael currently resides in the Greater Toronto Area, and he is using his years as a twenty-something to establish what he hopes will be a long career in writing. He works in editing and acquisitions for Curiosity Quills Press, and his freelance work has appeared on websites such as Nexopia, FluentU, and BlushPost. The Black Oracle, his debut novel, is out now. Like him on Facebook. Follow him on Twitter.
"Joachim is a hunter in the jungle of a post-apocalyptic Earth. Though generations have passed since the Great Death, something has evolved in the trees beyond the giant glowing mushrooms, mutants that want to see human entrails spread along the jungle floor.And now they've taken Joachim’s wife.
To get her back, Joachim will have to give the leader of these demons something in return: immortality. A creature knows when he is going to die, after all. Plunged into a world of magic and darkness, Joachim must find the only woman who knows where the ingredients are. She is a prophetess known as the Black Oracle living in the realm of Zalm, but she’s a little preoccupied at the moment. She leads a rebellion against the ruthless High Council, and when Joachim seeks her out, he too finds himself consumed by her struggle.
In a story of betrayal, prophecy, and bloodshed, Joachim has ten days to retrieve the ingredients and return to Earth all while evading the High Council’s army, one that wants the Black Oracle and her associates killed — Joachim included."
“The Black Oracle” is a New Adult post-apocalyptic fantasy novel, and it is available now. You can pick up an eBook copy on Amazon here or a paperback copy here . Check out the excerpt below and join the adventure today.
“Darcie had been sitting in the doorway when he returned to the village not yet two evenings ago. The day had been hot, and Joachim was sweaty and dirty and tired. He lowered his rucksack, and she closed the book she had been reading, one from Baruch’s Old Earth library, like all the others.
“Welcome home.”
He’d spent the last six weeks in the arms of the jungle, the cold, dark, unforgiving wilderness that never truly felt right even on the most beautiful of days. Joachim had hunted in those trees all his life, but nothing compared to Darcie. In her eyes, he was home.
“How did the great hunters fare?” she teased. “Did you take down three alligators this time? How about an elephant? Will we have enough elephant meat to last us until next summer?”
“Not quite,” Joachim replied.
She stood with her hands on her waist. From the back, someone would think that she was upset if not for the expression on her face. She watched him from under her brow, her chin turned slightly downward. She smiled.
“I missed you,” he whispered as he snuck his hands onto her hips.
“No, you didn’t.” She smirked. “You and Ben and Trent are like children out there—like young boys. And the jungle is your little paradise.”
“What if I told you that you are my paradise?” He kissed her neck.
She snorted. “Oh, please. Think you can just walk in here and woo me with some flattery?”
“I know I can.”
Darcie’s arms snaked around him. Her lips were as intoxicating as barley sweetened in the sun, and soon, he lifted her off of her feet and pressed her against the wall.
“Joachim!” she exclaimed. “The neighbors.”
“There’s no one watching.”
She laughed and hit him lightly on the chest.
“How was everything while I was gone?” Joachim asked.
“Fine,” Darcie said. “Boring.” They went inside the dwelling. There was simmering jackalope stew on the stove. “Ophelia’s ceiling had a leak last week,” Darcie continued. “A big rainstorm pushed through here, and it ripped some of the roof off. Did you get a storm out there in the jungle too?”
“Yes,” Joachim said. “I’m not even sure my rucksack is dried all the way through yet.”
He dipped his finger into the stew. It tasted salty.
“And how are you?” he asked.
Darcie played with a lock of her dark hair and bit her bottom lip. She reminded him of the day they married. There had been no parent left to walk Darcie down the aisle, so she walked herself. The whole time she eyed him: shy yet eager. Almost childlike.
“I’m pregnant,” she said. He almost dropped his hand back into the stew. A little boy, she had just called him, alluding to his exhilaration whenever he entered the jungle. And Darcie was right: he often became so energized that he did feel like a little boy—and he felt like one again now. He felt like laughing, like scooping Darcie up and twirling her around. He could feel life bursting through his chest: ravenous innocence and maddening excitement. They’d been yearning for a child for so long.
“You are?”
“I found out into the second week of the hunt.” She touched his face. “I skipped my cycle, and I told Jolyne. She ran a test and told me I was expecting.”
Joachim cried. The hunter was supposed to be brave, but being brave sometimes meant having courage to show his emotions. He wept for her, smiling and laughing through the tears, and she cried too.
She spent the night tight to his chest and coiled in his arms like a huntress in camouflaging paints, like a butterfly in a cocoon.
Like she was protected by a shield.
Joachim wished she were there for him to protect now. She hadn’t mentioned the creatures that evening, and he doubted she even knew that they had come while he was away. But now she was gone, and so he had to be too. If he waited too long, the creatures would keep her away from him forever.
If she wasn’t already.”
Michael Cristiano is a Canadian writer. His relentless obsession with writing began long before he could spell the words 'relentless obsession'. Growing up in endless suburban sprawl, he spent most of his childhood pretending to be Harry Potter and attempting to get published by the age of thirteen. When he isn’t writing or reading, he can be found planning his next backpacking trip around the world. He is a recent graduate from the University of Toronto with studies in Foreign Language and Linguistics. Previously, he attended a Regional Arts high school where he majored in drama. He is fond of all things dramatic. Michael currently resides in the Greater Toronto Area, and he is using his years as a twenty-something to establish what he hopes will be a long career in writing. He works in editing and acquisitions for Curiosity Quills Press, and his freelance work has appeared on websites such as Nexopia, FluentU, and BlushPost. The Black Oracle, his debut novel, is out now. Like him on Facebook. Follow him on Twitter.
May 25, 2015
Muse/Character Blog Hop: The Faux Fountain Pen Blog-aversary Party!
+Sarah Foster is having a party today. She invited me and said I could bring a friend, so I'm bringing Patricia O'Neill, a main character in Going Through the Change: A Menopausal Superhero Novel. I don't get out much, so forgive me any social faux pas, please.
1. Who is your muse (or character)? Tell us a little bit about him/her and why you brought them.
This is Patricia O'Neill. She's been a bit of a loner here lately, and I'm hoping she'll meet someone here at your party. It can be hard to find a companion who is comfortable with her kind of strength and independence. She also needs to let off a little steam, especially if she's going to keep her alter ego in check. (Don't worry-she promised not to destroy your furniture; it's been months since she destroyed anything by accident).She says I need to get out more, too. Selling books is not a game for introverts, after all. (Sigh) She's probably right.
2. What are you guys wearing? Dressing up or keeping it casual?
Patricia is rocking a new Dolce&Gabbana suit. She was really annoyed when that incident at the coffee shop last month destroyed her favorite Armani jacket, but was thrilled to find this suit to replace it. She really likes how slim fitting pants are coming back in. They let her show off her hours in the gym. She's in amazing shape for a woman of any age. (Don't tell anyone, but she's almost sixty!)
Me? Well I was just going to wear my usual sarcastic teeshirt, jeans, and Converse, but Patricia insisted on dressing me up. So, I've got this sundress. It was a compromise. She wanted me to wear a power-suit like her, but I convinced her that they just aren't the same on short-ish, round-ish women like me. I'd be fine in the dress if it weren't for the heels. I'm trying not to move around too much. I already fell twice since we got here, and I haven't even had a drink yet. I miss my Converse.
3. It's a potluck! Did you bring something yummy?
I made cookies! Another of our friends from Going Through the Change, Leonel, shared the recipe with me. These are called polvorones. He and his husband couldn't come. They've got the grandkids tonight, but Leonel sends his best wishes for a happy blog-aversary. He says you can't go wrong with cookies. He ought to know. He used to be the queen of the bake sales back in his PTA mom days. (It's a long story)Patricia doesn't cook, but she picked up a nice bottle of wine. She said you should let it breathe a little while before serving it.
4. Open bar! What are you both drinking (booze or otherwise)?
Patricia got stuck on martinis in her boardroom days. You'd better let her just make it herself. She's particular. Do you have any hard cider? I never developed a taste for beer, and I'm a total lightweight when it comes to cocktails.
5. Wallflowers or social butterflies?
I'm a wallflower by nature, but that's part of why I brought Patricia. She really knows how to work a room and she promised to help me network and not look like such a dork.
6. What song(s) will you and your muse sing for karaoke?
I love to sing! Patricia and I were singing a mean version of I Will Survive in the car on the way over. I'll see if I can talk her into performing with me for you all.
7. What's your favorite party game?
Have you ever played JS Joust? It's a lot of fun, and always gets me giggling.
What's that, Patricia?
Oh yeah…the shoes. I'd totally fall on my face. Let's see…are we too old for charades? Or never-have-I-ever? Truth or dare? Let's go for it!
8. Which one of you is more likely to end up dancing on a table top?
Oh dear Lord, I hope neither of us! This drink isn't that strong is it?
9. Has your muse been a good date and would you ever hang out with them again?
I'd hang out with Patricia anytime (I'm almost done with the sequel and she's amazing in it!), but I think she found me a little boring. Still, if she invites me, you know I'll be there! Thanks for having us. It's good to get out and it can be hard to find a party that lets you bring your imaginary friends.
- See more at: http://thefauxfountainpen.blogspot.co...
Check out the other blogs in this linky to see who else is at the party!
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May 20, 2015
My First Book Fair, Behind the Table
So, this past weekend, I had my first author table at a book fair. It was at Read Local NC, a new event in Durham organized by Light Messages.
I shared my table with Jon Batson, another local author who has been at this a bit longer. He had some ten or twelve books to hawk, and he and his kind and funny wife had an approach all worked out. He was really good at the getting out and meeting people part for certain.
I, on the other hand, was fighting the introverted side of myself the whole way. Luckily, even for someone like me, events like these hand you a lot of built-in opportunities. People walk up to the table, and you have to say something. Even just "hello" is a good start. Children come up and you can give them colorful bookmarks printed with book information or hand them coloring pages (I printed some black and white versions of the art +Charles C. Dowd made for me last Christmas. (Jessica was very popular with little girls).
People ask questions. I'm a teacher and a mom, so questions are my forté. In fact, I probably annoy people by giving really full answers to questions that were meant to be merely polite because that teacher hat is so firmly squared on my noggin.
Given what my book is about (menopausal superheroes), my favorite part was people-watching for "realization dawning." People would walk by the table, casually reading the titles, then stop and double-take (Thanks again +Polina Sapershteyn for that wonderful, eye-catching cover). Or they'd be standing there talking to me or Jon and reading covers as they did. They'd stop and their eyes would grow wide. That was definitely a thrill.
Of course, not everyone who stopped by bought a copy of my book, and if I assess the event in terms of a dollars-per-hour spent, I didn't break even. Then again, maybe I did. That's the thing. You don't know which of those people went home and ordered your book from their favorite bookseller after the event, or gave your bookmark or coloring page to someone else who then bought your book. I also made a couple of contacts that might lead to being invited to future things, like interviews on the radio, panels, and blog posts.
So, my takeaway: these events might not be immediately profitable, and are exhausting, but the long term payoff potential is high.
I shared my table with Jon Batson, another local author who has been at this a bit longer. He had some ten or twelve books to hawk, and he and his kind and funny wife had an approach all worked out. He was really good at the getting out and meeting people part for certain.
I, on the other hand, was fighting the introverted side of myself the whole way. Luckily, even for someone like me, events like these hand you a lot of built-in opportunities. People walk up to the table, and you have to say something. Even just "hello" is a good start. Children come up and you can give them colorful bookmarks printed with book information or hand them coloring pages (I printed some black and white versions of the art +Charles C. Dowd made for me last Christmas. (Jessica was very popular with little girls).
People ask questions. I'm a teacher and a mom, so questions are my forté. In fact, I probably annoy people by giving really full answers to questions that were meant to be merely polite because that teacher hat is so firmly squared on my noggin.
Given what my book is about (menopausal superheroes), my favorite part was people-watching for "realization dawning." People would walk by the table, casually reading the titles, then stop and double-take (Thanks again +Polina Sapershteyn for that wonderful, eye-catching cover). Or they'd be standing there talking to me or Jon and reading covers as they did. They'd stop and their eyes would grow wide. That was definitely a thrill.
Of course, not everyone who stopped by bought a copy of my book, and if I assess the event in terms of a dollars-per-hour spent, I didn't break even. Then again, maybe I did. That's the thing. You don't know which of those people went home and ordered your book from their favorite bookseller after the event, or gave your bookmark or coloring page to someone else who then bought your book. I also made a couple of contacts that might lead to being invited to future things, like interviews on the radio, panels, and blog posts.
So, my takeaway: these events might not be immediately profitable, and are exhausting, but the long term payoff potential is high.
May 13, 2015
An Interview with K.Lynn: Author of His Womanly Ways
It's my pleasure to introduce you to K.Lynn, a talented writer in my critique group. Her fantastic genderswap novel, His Womanly Ways, is now available for preorder on Torquere Press. She was kind enough to answer a few interview questions about herself and her book. Enjoy!___________________________________
· I love a good origin story. Please tell me how this story got its start.
NaNoWrimo! I had never done it before, so I figured I'd give it a try, and this story came full-force as a result of the experience. This novel is unlike my usual fare of works, and perhaps that's why it came so fast to me. I let myself go and just saw where the plot would take me. And it turns out that it took me to quite an interesting place. The only thing I knew going in was that I wanted to do a genderswap book, but one that was unlike those I had read prior. I hope that I've succeeded on that front.
After I had a complete manuscript for His Womanly Ways, I put it away for a long, long time and moved on to other novels. Last year, I took it out again, because I had started to gain recognition for my short stories in various anthologies, and I had a pseudonym I wrote under for the genre, so I figured I'd polish it and send it out to publishers to see if anyone was interested. I knew I loved the journey of the characters and the writing, but I didn't know if anyone else would. Thankfully, they did, and I had a number of offers that I could choose between on where the best home for my book would be.
· What was the hardest part of writing this story?
I was terrified going into the process for NaNoWriMo, because I had completed a novel the year prior and it took me a couple of months to get it finished. To think about writing a novel in a month was insanity, but at least it would give me a good start on the storyline. I never aimed to win, but win it I did with 51,000 words at the end of the month, and I continued on through the next month to finish up the remaining 15,000 words needed to have a complete story.
What is usually the hardest part of writing the story for my other publications became an advantage in this one. When I have a long time to contemplate and write, I'll often consider not only where the story's going, but also how it will be received by the audience at large. That changes the way it's constructed a bit. With His Womanly Ways, it was an experiment for myself. I wanted to write a genderswap story and I didn't constrain myself by wondering what the audience would think, or if it was a good fit for the publishing marketplace. My intention wasn't the ultimate goal of publishing, but the ultimate goal of finishing and entertaining myself. Now, I have the chance to entertain others as well.
· What are you reading right now?
Fanfiction, which is probably why the concept of exploring whatever topics come to mind has always appealed to me in writing. There doesn't seem to be any plots off-limits in fandom, which is very freeing. And it was the mindset that I took on for this novel. Have fun, write what you want to write and what you want to read. And the act of writing within fandom has been very beneficial to a number of writers who went on to publish professionally. I recently wrote a think-piece for Media Res that explored using fanfiction in the classroom to teach the structure of writing. The framework that fandom gives, the built-in audience and the guidance that readers provide through feedback, is a great way to spread your wings and see how far you can go as a writer.
· If we can't get enough of your words, where can we find more of them?
It is a very busy few months for me in publishing. Not only do I have this novel coming out, but in the middle of June I have a story in an anthology from Torquere Press around the concept of LGBT parenthood, I have a novella coming out from Less Than Three Press on July 1st that focuses on a transgender character and her potential romantic involvement with a certain coffee shop employee, I have a novella from Dreamspinner Press out also in July that is about a blind artist and his emerging romance with a veterinarian, and I have another novella coming out later this fall that is about a noted novelist who is getting over the death of his long-time partner and not looking for love, but love finds him anyway. You can see all my releases on my website (WriterKLynn.com).
~~ The Book: His Womanly Ways
http://www.torquerebooks.com/index.ph...
The Author: K. Lynn
K. Lynn has been an avid reader and writer since childhood. While in college, K. Lynn increased her involvement in LGBT issues and writing within the LGBT fiction genre. She has become a long-time fan of the authors that seek to explore the commonality that exists within all sexualities and genders. Most of K. Lynn's work features LGBT characters, many of whom are in established relationships and show how love perseveres through every trial and tribulation that life holds. She also has a particular interest in seeing transgender characters gain a larger foothold within the LGBT fiction genre, hoping that the market for these works will expand in the future. Contact K. Lynn at writerklynn@gmail.com or follow her on Twitter @WriterKLynn
· I love a good origin story. Please tell me how this story got its start.
NaNoWrimo! I had never done it before, so I figured I'd give it a try, and this story came full-force as a result of the experience. This novel is unlike my usual fare of works, and perhaps that's why it came so fast to me. I let myself go and just saw where the plot would take me. And it turns out that it took me to quite an interesting place. The only thing I knew going in was that I wanted to do a genderswap book, but one that was unlike those I had read prior. I hope that I've succeeded on that front.
After I had a complete manuscript for His Womanly Ways, I put it away for a long, long time and moved on to other novels. Last year, I took it out again, because I had started to gain recognition for my short stories in various anthologies, and I had a pseudonym I wrote under for the genre, so I figured I'd polish it and send it out to publishers to see if anyone was interested. I knew I loved the journey of the characters and the writing, but I didn't know if anyone else would. Thankfully, they did, and I had a number of offers that I could choose between on where the best home for my book would be.
· What was the hardest part of writing this story?
I was terrified going into the process for NaNoWriMo, because I had completed a novel the year prior and it took me a couple of months to get it finished. To think about writing a novel in a month was insanity, but at least it would give me a good start on the storyline. I never aimed to win, but win it I did with 51,000 words at the end of the month, and I continued on through the next month to finish up the remaining 15,000 words needed to have a complete story.
What is usually the hardest part of writing the story for my other publications became an advantage in this one. When I have a long time to contemplate and write, I'll often consider not only where the story's going, but also how it will be received by the audience at large. That changes the way it's constructed a bit. With His Womanly Ways, it was an experiment for myself. I wanted to write a genderswap story and I didn't constrain myself by wondering what the audience would think, or if it was a good fit for the publishing marketplace. My intention wasn't the ultimate goal of publishing, but the ultimate goal of finishing and entertaining myself. Now, I have the chance to entertain others as well.
· What are you reading right now?
Fanfiction, which is probably why the concept of exploring whatever topics come to mind has always appealed to me in writing. There doesn't seem to be any plots off-limits in fandom, which is very freeing. And it was the mindset that I took on for this novel. Have fun, write what you want to write and what you want to read. And the act of writing within fandom has been very beneficial to a number of writers who went on to publish professionally. I recently wrote a think-piece for Media Res that explored using fanfiction in the classroom to teach the structure of writing. The framework that fandom gives, the built-in audience and the guidance that readers provide through feedback, is a great way to spread your wings and see how far you can go as a writer.
· If we can't get enough of your words, where can we find more of them?
It is a very busy few months for me in publishing. Not only do I have this novel coming out, but in the middle of June I have a story in an anthology from Torquere Press around the concept of LGBT parenthood, I have a novella coming out from Less Than Three Press on July 1st that focuses on a transgender character and her potential romantic involvement with a certain coffee shop employee, I have a novella from Dreamspinner Press out also in July that is about a blind artist and his emerging romance with a veterinarian, and I have another novella coming out later this fall that is about a noted novelist who is getting over the death of his long-time partner and not looking for love, but love finds him anyway. You can see all my releases on my website (WriterKLynn.com).
~~ The Book: His Womanly Ways
http://www.torquerebooks.com/index.ph...The Author: K. Lynn
K. Lynn has been an avid reader and writer since childhood. While in college, K. Lynn increased her involvement in LGBT issues and writing within the LGBT fiction genre. She has become a long-time fan of the authors that seek to explore the commonality that exists within all sexualities and genders. Most of K. Lynn's work features LGBT characters, many of whom are in established relationships and show how love perseveres through every trial and tribulation that life holds. She also has a particular interest in seeing transgender characters gain a larger foothold within the LGBT fiction genre, hoping that the market for these works will expand in the future. Contact K. Lynn at writerklynn@gmail.com or follow her on Twitter @WriterKLynn
May 8, 2015
A to Z Blogging Challenge: Reflections
This was my second run at the A to Z Blogging Challenge. In some ways, I did great! I had all my posts ready well in advance and because I'd gotten my blog, Google+, Twitter and Facebook accounts all interlinked in a feed-loop, they all automatically went out into the wilds of the internet without my having to do anything on a day to day basis. That organization was really important and kept the output angle from becoming overwhelming.
I also think I wrote some very good posts. A few I'm very proud of.
So, at least in terms of output, I feel good.
http://www.freshbooks.com/assets/img/...Now, on the networking/interaction angle, my mileage varied. April was an incredibly busy month for me (given how busy a normal month is, it's saying something that I'll call this one especially busy). It was my book launch month and I was still teaching school full time. My younger daughter had a birthday. So did I! Because I'm greedy that way, I wasn't willing to drop any of the other balls I was already juggling to take on this new one.
So, if I was going to get in my writing time--which I DEFINITELY was, I could spare maybe 30 minutes a day for blogging stuff. That wasn't enough time. There were days that I didn't even make it to my 5 assigned blogs (I was a minion this year for Tremp's Troops). I tried to reciprocate for everyone who visited me as well, but I just couldn't find time for the random exploration of the Twitter hashtag or cruising through the Linky like I did last year.
I think there are plenty of good reasons for this, given the busy busy business of my life in April, but it doesn't mean that I don't feel bad. I know that all these other bloggers worked hard, too, and I would have liked to have found more time to explore and support what they did. Plus, meeting new people and finding new connections was part of what I loved last year.
I did still find a few new blogs to follow though. Would I do it again? You bet! I really enjoy writing and reading my way through the alphabet. Maybe next year, I'll do poetry, since April is also National Poetry Month. We can start with Eliot: April is the cruelest month . . .
May 6, 2015
#IWSG: I made it! Now what?
My debut novel (Going Through the Change) launched just two weeks ago. The few months leading up to it was a frenzy of activity, lining up promotional opportunities and planning my launch party. I was so busy! There was barely time to think and that was probably good, because there also wasn't time to drown myself in doubt. There was simply too much to do.
Now, that has slowed a little bit. And I find myself up here on the small mountain I just climbed, looking out at the horizon and feeling a bit of, "Well, now what?"
http://www.reactiongifs.us/wp-content... guess I expected to feel more like I had finished something. Maybe I should have a planned some kind of graduation ceremony for myself. On book launch day (a Thursday), I wasn't celebrating: I took my little girl to the dentist and worked on last minute party shopping. But adult life is like that: the milestones just happen on a random day and you still have to do the dishes. (I celebrated on Saturday with a wonderful book launch party at Flyleaf Books in Chapel Hill). And now, it's already about the next steps: finding new promotional opportunities, going to book fairs and cons, finding an agent to help me sell the heck out of all the rights we can, writing the next book, incorporating as an author, learning the business of how the business of all this works. Whew!
Still, I am living my dream. (My dreams require a lot of elbow grease, apparently.)
How do you celebrate the milestones of your writing life? And once you've gotten there, now what?______________________________________________
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. You should check them out!
May 4, 2015
Writing While Mom-ing: Writer Mama Bloghop
http://www.quotehd.com/imagequotes/au...-quote-this-has-been-an-elaborate-exercise-in-navel-gazing.jpg+Sharon Bayliss invited me to be a part of her Writer Mama Bloghop and share my "insights" into writing while Momming. So, what it's worth, here are my two cents:
Writing while Mom-ing is challenging, for certain, but I don't know if it's more challenging than writing while doing anything else. When I wasn't a mother, the first twenty-eight years of my life, I wanted to write, and, arguably, I had the time. I certainly had many hours a day that were mine to fill as I chose, but as often as not, I'd choose something else-reading, tennis, dating, movies, hiking, teaching something extra, hanging out with friends, traveling, studying, talking, sleeping. I regarded writing as something one did when the inspiration struck. Sometimes when I look back at that time of life, I feel like I wasted a lot of time. Other times, I think that I needed to do what I did then to know what I know now. In all that navel gazing, I garnered experience and knowledge that serves me now. So who knows?
When I had one child, I continued to write sporadically. I wrote detailed and beautiful journals about mothering, essays about family and life, and a fair amount of poetry. I even published some of this work, but I still didn't take it all that seriously. It still wasn't a vocation, just a hobby. I would be a writer "someday."
Then, as life does, it took turns. I moved, divorced, moved again, married again, moved again, and had a second child. After my second child was born, the urge to write, too often ignored in the past few years of upheaval and turmoil, cried loudly to be filled. My husband (the second one-the RIGHT one) believed in me, and understood that I needed to write to feel right in the heart of me, so he helped me find a local critique group. I began to write much more regularly. Just knowing that someone was expecting me to have pages ready when it was my turn was enough to make me write them.
I learned a lot during that time, but I still really struggled to make serious progress. I was teaching full time, mom-ing two lovely daughters, and building the foundation of my new marriage. There was a lot on my plate. Maybe I wasn't ready yet. Maybe I still didn't take myself seriously. I'd been working on one novel for four years (and one that I later abandoned for three years before that).
https://blog.42.nl/wp-content/themes/...Then, suddenly, I was going to be forty-two (I know I should have known it was coming, but it was still a surprise). For some reason, forty-two was the year that bothered me, the way that some people are upset by turning thirty or forty or fifty or other milestone years. Douglas Adams wrote in Hitchhiker's Guide that forty-two was the meaning of life, the universe, and everything. So, I decided that forty-two was the year to either make a go of being a writer for real, or to let it go.
So, I committed to a daily writing habit (using the Magic Spreadsheet gamification tool to track myself) a few months before that forty-second birthday and in all the days since (I've just turned forty-four), I have only missed ONE day of writing. At first it was really hard. My initial goal was two-hundred-fifty words a day. It doesn't sound like much, but if you write two-hundred-fifty words a day, you can have a novel-length manuscript in about a year. I was ready to start finishing things a little faster. Life was feeling shorter. And it worked beautifully for me. I've finished three novels since then and have first drafts of two more.
http://www.principalj.net/wp-content/...AAAAAAAAAzI/y90cN531-Sk/s1600/_Gplus_magic_spreadsheet.jpg
Besides that daily writing habit, which keeps me "in the flow" of my story all the time and saves me hours of floundering away trying to remember what my vision was in the first place, my other tricks have been learning to write amid chaos and noise and in shorter sessions. Some days, I write for thirty minutes on the Mom couch at the kids' krav maga lessons and fifteen more after the youngest has gone to sleep. Some days, I write early in the morning before anyone else is up. Some days, I write in a car moving down the highway (my husband is driving on these days) ignoring everyone else in the car until I feel carsick and have to stop.
Now for those who think I am ignoring my children and husband for this, you're only half right. How many times have we all read or heard that good mothers are happy in themselves? Some degree of selfishness is necessary for personal happiness. And my writing is my selfishness. That doesn't mean I don't still give.
And, as a mother of daughters, I would argue that it's VITAL for my girls to see their mother reaching for and working toward her dreams, and their parents balancing each other's needs and wants in a healthy give and take. We are their model for love and marriage, and I want my girls to find relationships that support them in their personal endeavors and help them be all that they can and wish to be. Being a writer is being a better mother because it's being a better me.
