Welcome, Karen McGrath

Hi Roseanne. Thanks so much for inviting me to visit your blog today. I’ve been enjoying the posts about my colleagues at Muse.


Where to begin…? I was born in Rhode Island, the smallest state in the Union. My dad was in the Navy so we moved around a lot but ended back in RI and then moved around in state. I’m Finnish and English, although I grew up thinking I was Swedish because my grandparents spoke the language. I was a spiritual little kid and drove adults mad with my “emperor has no clothes” observations. Although my family warmed the pews on holidays only, I had a Damascus Road conversion in kindergarten and thought everyone did it.

I’m also an officer’s daughter. My dad was Third Mate in the Merchant Marines. He joined after an assignment as a radar gunner in Alaska during the Cold War. That was my first taste of war - I remember the stench of it quite clearly. I’ve smelled it a few times since, Vietnam, the Gulf War and of course, 9/11. Almost all of the men on my father’s side of my family are military, with the exception of one uncle.

One of my favorite childhood memories is our family reunion clambakes. We always had them on Cape Cod after the summer was over. We’d gather early in the day. A special crew was sent to the beach to dig a pit in the sand. They’d build a huge fire in the pit and let it die down to embers. On top of that they’d lay down boards and seaweed. Then they’d layer lobsters, clams and scallops I think and boards on top of that to keep the heat in and then cover that with sand. I wasn’t fond of seafood so I didn’t pay too much attention to what went in the pit. Me and my siblings and cousins were thrilled to watch the crew fix it up and ask them silly questions in the process. Someone always brought along barbeque chicken for the children, and I was always grateful.

After hours of running up and down the beach and into neighbor’s gardens and sheds, getting sweaty and very sandy, it was time to open the pit. We loved it. I think it was the thought of cooking in the sand that we liked the best, and that we could run riot all day out of range of our parents. I also remember the butter. The adults had great fun dredging steamed clams through bowls of butter and slurping them. We’d pour melted butter all over our corn on the cob, dripping it as we ate it. Of course we had watermelon seed spitting contests. I never won those. We got into more stuff than the adults ever knew, adoring our freedom. I think we would have run the length of the Cape Cod shoreline if our appetites didn’t keep us close to the clambake.

Shortly after dinner the night air moved in and the crew would build a bonfire. We’d pull out our sweatshirts from the car and find sticks to roast marshmallows on. We’d gulp as many sodas as we could before the chill got to us or we fell asleep in our parents laps. I’d always wake up at home in my bed with a crick in my neck from sleeping in the car but happy for the time outdoors and the shared adventures with my cousins.

I live in Boston now with my husband and two teens who are both homeschooled. My oldest daughter lives nearby, also homeschooled. She’s working full time, going to grad school and runs her own business. None of my children have been to a clambake yet, sadly. I’m an author and editor at MuseItUp Publishing, which I absolutely love. I write paranormal romance mysteries, YA and memoir.

I’m pleased to offer a one-day workshop on the 12th at the Muse Online Writer’s Conference if you’d like to stop in. It’s called “Sacrificing your Novel to the Editing Gods?” What editing is, why it’s necessary, pointers on things editors look for, help with opening paragraphs, synopsis, cover letters; the usual fare.

I enjoy connecting with others on the internet so please feel free to email and friend me.

Website: www.karenmcgrathauthor.com

Email: karenmcgrathauthor@gmail.com

Blog: http://karenmcgrathauthor.blogspot.com/

Twitter: www.twitter.com/jazzchildblue
Facebook: www.facebook.com/karenmcgrathauthor

MuseItUp Publishing author page: http://museituppublishing.com/musepub/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=90&Itemid=82


My novel is Primordial Sun, the Heart of the Amazon, MuseItUp Publishing April 2011

Attorney Kylie Watson returns to Brazil to mourn her missionary parents where she's swept into the Amazon's current with vivid nightmares, family secrets, church corruption and international espionage.

“Do you want the truth, or something you can live with?”

My short story is Love in the Time of Mortals, MuseItUp Publishing August 2011

Lucille Lamphere checks into her Caribbean hotel hideaway for her annual vacation memorial to her husband who drowned on their honeymoon. Except this year, fate has another surprise...

“Sometimes love slips through your fingers only to return like waves on the sea.”

My Christmas novella is The Vagabond Prince, MuseItUp Publishing, December 2011

Jude, a reclusive anti-romantic, has a chance encounter with a homeless man who changes her life and gives her a Christmas she’ll never forget.

“Christmas comes softly but leaves an imprint that lasts for a lifetime.”

My memoir story, An Invitation to Hope, just published this week from the Choice Publishing Group in Nevada in their Patchwork Path anthology Christmas Stocking. Please contact me if you’d like a signed copy.

http://www.amazon.com/Patchwork-Path-Tena-Beth-Thompson/dp/0981664377/ref=sr_1_1?s=gateway&ie=UTF8&qid=1284924572&sr=8-1



Unedited excerpt from Primordial Sun, the Heart of the Amazon:

Kylie grabbed her cell phone from her robe pocket. The terry felt warm and cozy but she shuddered from nerves as she dialed Sharra at her condo. Sharra’s sleepy voice droned on the other side of the city.

“Yeah, you ok?”

“Sharra.” Kylie whispered loudly wondering why she was whispering at all and why she didn’t call the police first. “Sharra, I nightmared again…and I hear noises in the back yard… again.”

“I’m there. Get Chris on the line. The police will be there soon, right?” Sharra said waking up quicker.

“No, I didn’t call the police. What if no one’s out there, they’ll think I’m crazy?”

“No Kylie, you think you’re crazy, that’s why you don’t call them. Honestly, if you call them and no one is out there, you’ll feel better knowing that. It’s their job. You hear a noise outside in the middle of the night, you call the cops. Got it? Simple. Now hang up and call them before I do. Ok, leggings, sandals, hoodie here, got the keys and getting in my baby Fiat. Motor running, be there in seconds. Now call them.”

“Sharra, you’re in the car, turn off your cell.” Kylie said and hung up. She dialed Chris.

“Chris, I nightmared, there’s someone in the back yard. Sharra’s on her way.” She whispered loudly into his answering machine. Chris would come immediately when he heard the message. In seconds her friends would be here and then what? They would check the backyard with brooms in hand to fight off offenders? How ridiculous. She decided she needed tranquilizers wondering if her prescription sleeping pills would qualify.

As she spoke to herself, she poured a glass of water and peeked out the window cautiously. Finding nothing, she tiptoed to the front of her small Victorian, past the dining room and the den and into the front foyer. Through the windows on either side of the large front door she saw the headlights of the police car and realized she had to look somewhat presentable. She slipped on her flats which she kept near the front door and pulled the ties on her ivory robe a little tighter. The bottom of her nightgown showed only at the hem. Not too revealing, she thought as she brushed her hair with her fingers and glanced in the side mirror above the bench. No, none of yesterday’s makeup had smeared across her face, as if there might be any after all her crying that night. The knock was light on the door and she pulled the curtain to the side just a bit. Yes, it was an officer. She let him in with his partner.

“Miss Watson? Kylie Watson? Please show us to the back, Miss Watson. Sharra Martinelli called to tell us you may be in danger. Do not turn on any lights.”

“Thank you for coming,” She whispered and walked them through the house to the kitchen and back door where she unlocked the deadbolt for them. Their flashlights were jammed in their pockets and their guns were drawn.

In danger…Kylie thought, grateful to have help now. She was in danger in her dream and didn’t know it. It seemed odd she might be in danger now. Isn’t that what danger is, obvious? If you are in danger it is evident, that’s how you know…right? Otherwise, you aren’t in danger, you’re in the dark…right? Something clicked into place in Kylie’s heart almost imperceptibly. She barely noticed it but her line of thought made sense, but made sense only to her for a very real reason. The moment escaped her as she saw the officers dart behind the garage.

Welcome, Nick Giannaras

The real Nick…hmmm. I love Jesus and have been saved since 1997. I am a practicing chiropractor in Gastonia, NC and have been doing so for the last 14 years. I am a blessed physician, a blessed father, and a blessed husband…okay, so I’m blessed. Besides writing, I have numerous hobbies, including: tabletop wargaming, Civil War reenacting, outdoors (hunting/fishing), painting, and on occasion making music via my computer. I normally make high energy dance music (techno/trance/progressive house), but I have also dabbled into some orchestral pieces and a tad of jazz.


I enjoy helping folks when I can, and through my practice I have had some neat opportunities to reach out to others. With writing, I can also do it through the written word. I have a blog: nickgiannaras.wordpress.com that lists some things about my stories as well as an article or two on life. I haven’t entered much since I’ve been busy with getting my first novel edited. Go figure.

I love to make people laugh and can be quite silly, not only at home but at my office as well. I wish I can do more for people. But I understand that God is grooming me into a perfect weapon. One that will care, love, and do for others in numerous avenues, including Facebook, where I try and enter a positive message for readers. I just try to be obedient and do what I need to do whether folks like it or not, whether they understand or not. That’s just a little about me.

CHAPTER ONE


AN ODD FRIENDSHIP
Courtar clutched his precious leather-bound journal tightly to his chest with his right arm while emphasizing points with his left arm—as defiantly as an adolescent cleric could against an such argumentative crowd. A light rain had soaked the town for hours while Courtar spoke under gray skies. Some cast disbelieving smirks and rude chortles while others masked with angered expressions and irate jeers unsteadied Courtar’s position atop a small stack of crates serving as his podium next to a white washed dry goods store.

“You must listen to me. This stuff is real. I’ve researched it. For your own safety, for everyone’s future,” Courtar said.

Disturbed grumbles continued as curses were uttered back. Several groups of people began muttering within their own closed circles while Courtar gulped, his breathing shallowed, his palms moistened.

“And how do you know all this?” one man dressed in sawdust-covered clothes yelled. “Are you clairvoyant?” The comment drew laughter from the gathered crowd.

“Maybe he’s an all-seeing mage!” said a woman in a stained, brown plaid commoner’s dress and unkempt hair scattered in various directions.

Courtar drew a slow breath. “I’ve been researching this for months now. The truth I’ve found in more than one book reinforces what the prophecies say. If something is not done, we will all perish.”

“They say mages don’t bleed. Cut him and see,” said the first man again. More laughter rippled across the crowd.

Courtar’s eyes bulged. “I’m not a mage.”

“Why don’t you show us that book of yours,” said a short, hefty woman, pointing to Courtar’s journal. Others agreed with vocal outbursts, sending unpleasant glances toward his notebook. Courtar gripped the journal tighter.

“What’s in my book I already have shared with you.”

Several irate patrons began stepping toward Courtar with what he perceived were threatening gestures. He attempted to take a step back, yet he forgot where he stood; he was stuck. Out of the corner of his eye, Courtar spied movement. He turned his head in time to see a man in a red tattered sack coat, wielding a large knife. Courtar couldn’t tell if the blade’s browned stains were rust or dried blood. The man’s frightful grin exposed a large gap in his front teeth.

“I’m tired of ya speakin’ ‘bout all this prophecy junk. How’s ‘bout I cut ya a new smile, boy,” he said while slashing the air with his polished blade.

Courtar rubbed a nervous hand through his damp dirty-blonde frazzled hair. At least nobody could see the sweat running down his back and legs underneath his green homespun tunic and brown pants. For a moment, he was sure he saw his iron cross

hanging from a leather strap around his neck bounce with his heartbeat. “Sir, I mean no harm. You must understand, time is against us. The darkness will be here sooner than you think.”

Courtar paused on his own words. “Or is it already here?”

The man failed to stop as he took slow steps forward brandishing his knife while Courtar noticed several others moving toward him with clubs and clenched fists.

“Sovereign, I need your help,” Courtar whispered. He squeezed his eyes shut and waited.

The disgruntled citizens stood a jump away from the crate when a rumbling growl caught almost everyone’s attention from the back of the crowd. A disruptive murmur rippled through the mob from the back to the front as the mass stirred.

Courtar, his heart racing, looked up after opening his eyes to see a giant rift parting the crowd. Silence befell those gathered. At the pinnacle of the separation stood a burly armored Dwergen. A large scar cut diagonally from the Dwergen’s upper left eye to his lower right chin, revealing his malformed upper lip and nose. His beard, filled with golden rings and charm-like trinkets intertwined through the soft hair, covered his face well, allowing only his ruddy complexion and sharp nose to be exposed. His dark auburn beard and hair hung down in matching length several inches above his black leather belt. Regardless of his unique appearance, it did little to hide the lingering aroma of dirt and stale ale.

The Dwergen’s left hand tugged on his ornament laden beard as his slanted emerald eyes scanned the situation. Courtar could see the Dwergen’s white knuckled grip on the broad shaft of a heavy weapon resembling a cross between a battleaxe and a warhammer propped against his right shoulder, the metallic edges gleaming from the morning sunlight piercing through the surrounding forest.

Courtar could hear the surprised whispers of the crowd staring at the rare sight of this being. Clubs were put aside and clenched fists eased open. Courtar stood a bit straighter as the Dwergen tromped toward him, casting stern glares at the crowd as he passed before stopping in front of him. The Dwergen looked the cleric up and down with a grunt before turning toward the mob with a determined scowl.

“It’s best if you leave this lad alone. He speaks of religious teachin’s and is doin’ what his heart tells him is right.”

The man in the tattered red coat sneered at the Dwergen, his knife still clutched in his hand. “We don’t need hearin’ no junk about Sovereign and prophecies. And ya best scat if ya know what’s good for ya, ya tainted misbreed.”

“Shut yer mouth, Ergen,” said the short heavy woman through clenched teeth. “Can’t yer dumb eyes see that’s a Dwergen.”

“I don’t care a bit,” Ergen said. He brandished his knife and charged when the Dwergen spun around with the flat of his raxan blade and smacked Ergen on his shoulder, sending the ill-tempered patron flying into the side of the dry goods store with a crash. Ergen crumpled into the mud in a silent heap.

The Dwergen spun around with a snarl and his raxan in a two fisted grip, the gold trinkets glimmering in the morning sun. “Any other maggot feelin’ itchy?”

Courtar watched in amazement as the crowd backed away. The Dwergen looked over his shoulder at the cleric.

“Best if you leave with me, laddie. This town doesn’t seem to take to yer words very kindly.”

Courtar sighed as he stepped down off the crates. “Thank you.” He picked up his backpack lying in front of his makeshift stage, slung it over his shoulder, and hurried after the Dwergen, who already had a head start trudging down the muddy road.

With his journal in hand, he scooted up next to the Dwergen who trudged northward at a steady pace. “My thanks again, sir.”

The Dwergen cast an unemotional glance at the cleric. “Yer welcome.”

Courtar held out a damp hand. “I’m Courtar.”

The Dwergen reached around with his thick deeply etched left hand and grasped Courtar’s softer grip.

“Boren.”

“Y-you are a, a…”

“Dwergen,” Boren said, looking straight ahead.

“W-What are you doing out here?”

“Lookin’ fer somethin’.”

Several silent moments passed with only the cling-clang echo of bobbling equipment before Courtar looked to Boren. “Uhm, you didn’t say what you were looking for.”

The Dwergen kept facing forward, trudging along the wooded trail as the town faded behind a curtain of trees. “I know.”

“If you told me, I might be able to help you find it.”

“It’s a personal journey, laddie. Somethin’ of my family long lost since our war with the foulskin two eras gone.”

Courtar’s head wrinkled in thought. “You’re talking over three hundred years ago.”

“Aye. And I mean to find it, or die tryin’.”

“You seem quite determined to find this thing, huh?”

Boren looked askance at Courtar. “As determined and passionate as you are defendin’ yer belief on them prophecies.”

A sheepish grin stroked Courtar’s lips. “Oh, you heard me talking?”

“Aye, I did.” Boren stopped and faced Courtar with his hands propped on his hips. “And what is a young human cleric wanderin’ alone blabberin’ on prophecies to the point of almost gettin’ killed?”

Courtar turned and continued walking, leaving Boren standing alone. “It’s something I have to do.”

“Called? Did you receive a message from a raven or courier?” Boren asked as he hurried to catch up. “Or were you provoked?”

Courtar stopped and spun to face Boren, heat rising from underneath his tunic. “I did this on my own. They wouldn’t let me, wouldn’t believe me. They have never believed in me; always a slave. Do this, do that. Clean this, scribe these. Study, study, study.”

Boren stood with arms folded, his head cocked with a smirk.

Courtar sighed. “It’s hard to explain. In my studies back at Temple Sovereign in Aldor, I ran across writings on the prophecy in a secluded portion of the library. I ended up finding more material on the matter. Unfortunately, they barely touched on the subject. More like legend or fireside myth, or so I thought. This persistent burning deep in my gut kept pushing me to seek what I felt. And, well, two months later, here I am.”

“This trek yer on is personal as well as destiny,” Boren said. Courtar nodded. “So, you believe them prophecies to be true?”

“With all my heart. And you?”

“From what I’ve seen, I know thin’s are gettin’ worse. No matter. If darkness is ready to fall upon us, foulskin will be close behind. The way I see it, I’ll wait until they show their filthy heads, so I can have fun cleavin’ ’em off!” Boren said with bulging eyes, seemingly hungry to enter a bloody battle at a moment’s notice.

“Won’t it be kinda, messy?”

“And yer point is?”

Courtar grinned at his bearded companion and swatted his hand. “Nevermind.”