Hello, Rosalie Skinner

 Thank you so much for being here, Lady Rosalie Skinner.

1: What genre do you write?

I write Science fiction Fantasy.

2: How long have you been writing?

Since 1988. When I found I had exhausted the local libraries and my favorite authors didn’t write fast enough. I decided I would write my own story.

3: What do you like the most and least about writing?

When I write I tend to become obsessive, that’s the least desirable trait. The best, well hearing back from readers who want you to write more, is the biggest thrill of all.

4: What do you for fun and relaxation when not writing?

When not writing obsessively, you mean? Then I am happiest being a grandmother.

5: Which authors do you like to read?

I tend to avoid reading Fantasy authors while I am writing, but I will indulge in crime, Michael Connolly, Harlan Coban, and for a little history I read Bernard Cornwall.

6: What’s the one thing you’d most like people to know about you?

Hmm, that I am about to become a published author with Museitup Publishing and I am to host a Fantasy writing workshop at the Museonline Free Writer’s conference.

7: Tell me about your current novel, where I can find it?

This month will see the second book in the series The Chronicles of Caleath released. Exiled: Winter’s Curse can be found on the Museitup Publishing website or a link is also on my website at www.Rosalieskinner.com

8: Do you have any tips for aspiring authors?

Never give up. Keep writing. Keep reading. Listen to advice, grasp the concepts and apply them as you feel they enhance your writing. Let the advice that doesn’t seem to apply stand and simmer. One day it may be helpful.

9: Do you base your characters on real-life people?

Not intentionally. The courage though, to face life’s adversity came from watching someone close face the changes that came from coping and learning to live with a chronic debilitating disease. One character is named after, if not based on a real person. A dear friend who asked to be in the books, the last time I saw her, is now a character and appears in several of the books in The Chronicles of Caleath. She will also appear in the next series.

10: How did you come up with the idea for this book?

I have always loved the fantasy genre and science fiction too. So that was a base to work on. Then I have taken aspects of life around us and applied them to Caleath’s world. We live in a strange environment, I guess that’s where I found most of my ideas. In Caleath’s world people are learning to live with virtual reality games, real life TV shows, big brother watching for entertainment, drugs, environmental problems, relationships that don’t follow Hollywood parameters and the hiccups life throws down as challenges to living. Then I add a lot of imagination and fantasy ideas too. Pirates, dragons, whales, magic, damsels with attitude and heroes on horseback.

11: What are you currently working on?

I have a WIP. The second book in a new series that follows the Chronicles of Caleath. It is on standby at present as I work toward the release of the eight books in the first series. With editing and promoting I am kept pretty busy.

12. Is there anything else you’d like us to know about you?

I can be contacted through my website, or blog. I love to hear from readers and other authors.

13. Where can we find you? Website? Blog?

Website: Rosalieskinner.com

Blog: Ramblings from Lady Rosalie http://rosalieskinner.blogspot.com

Thank you Roseanne for hosting me today.

EXCERPT: Exiled: Winter’s Curse

Unedited

Despite the unexpected appearance of a threat in their midst, the experienced bandits reacted with lightning reflexes. Men swarmed from the cave, drawing bows and steel. They took no chances once they identified their quarry.

Caleath spent precious moments removing bowmen from the fray.

With the instinct of a Rampartian cat, he leapt to the ground, before he drew steel. His Karadorian blade ran red with firelight and dark blood as he brandished the weapon.

The encounter raged unhampered by convention. A bloodthirsty melee ensued where drawn blood drew savage reprisal. Caleath thrust and parried. Striking high, blocking low he lunged forward to take out one adversary while blocking another.

He withdrew his sword to counter-thrust past a badly executed onslaught. Relentless, desperate attacks, driven by anger and fear, caused lethal misjudgment. Another antagonist fell before Caleath’s tireless blade. When the sword snagged under the dying man’s weight Caleath feinted. He snatched the wrist of an unguarded arm flailing toward him.

With a wicked twist, he snapped the arm back. The sound of fracturing bone echoed with the scream while Caleath hefted free his sword and silenced the bandit’s agony.

Two brigands maintained their assault. Caleath caught a fleeting image of a third, somehow lost from sight. His adversaries worked as a team, moving with experience and care to engage him.

From nowhere a silent missile struck Caleath, missing his temple by a hair’s breadth. He tried to turn but black pain exploded in his skull. The young survivor from the village, safely out of reach of Caleath’s sword, smiled and lowered a slingshot.

Caleath staggered against the bole of the fig. Fighting to stay conscious, he watched two brigands step forward to finish the fight.

Unable to raise his sword, Caleath closed his eyes and waited for death. He heard the unforgettable whistle of arrows. He didn’t feel the quarrels strike. Darkness caressed him. The abyss offered sweet oblivion and he sank onto his haunches.  

Hello, Heather Haven

The Pickled Percussions of Penning

 For the past thirty years I have been, more or less, Mrs. Norman Meister. Even though I held a job, actually ran my own department at Stanford University, Norman was the hotshot performer, with a rock and roll band, a jazz duo, and other musical skills that left people always asking me, “what’s it like to be married to Norman? It must be heaven to hear his singing all the time.” Occasionally, I would step down from the perceived cloud, sit in the background, smile, ever charming and demure, ever appreciative of his many talents. And if I could help a little with the load-out after the gig, so much the better. Simply put, being Norman’s wife was pretty much my raison d’être.

It has changed. Now I am a published author. I am a cause célèbre. I use French words. True, I am a very minor cause, but I think you take what you can get in this life. Many people have gathered around, bought Murder is a Family Business and A Wedding to Die For, in either print or ebook form, and proceeded to read them. I was impressed with this outpouring of support. They were impressed with my work. All was good.

But I’ve also noticed there’s a price to be paid for stepping into the spotlight. People feel compelled to tell you every grain of what they don’t like in one of your books, even if it’s only from their own frame of reference. For instance, my upstairs neighbor, a lovely lady of around 80 years old, read both my books, loved them she said, and passed them on to her daughter. Of course, it would have been nice if she encouraged her daughter to buy them, but as I’ve mentioned, you take what you can get in this life.

Where was I? Oh yes, lovely upstairs neighbor. She called to tell me she didn’t think anybody would cut up a bridesmaid dress at a wedding the way the protagonist did in A Wedding to Die For. As it was based on personal experience - I did just that, myself – I thanked her for her insight, threw in some small talk, and hung up.

Recently at a dinner party, someone had some thoughts and feelings to lay on me about my books. Trapped at the table without a drink in sight, I listened to this:

“Okay, Heather, I read your first book and I’m two-thirds of the way through the second, and because it’s a mindless read, I go back and forth from that to my more serious books. As I say, it’s pretty mindless, but I wanted you to know I am enjoying it very much, just like I enjoyed the first book. They’re mindless but very good.”

Now, I don’t know what any of you would have said, but I found myself stymied for a reply to the ‘mindless’ side of the comments. A part of me wanted to say, “Well then, as you have no mind, they are a perfect read for you” or “It took a mind to write them, toots” or “I think the word you’re going for is ‘lightweight,’ not ‘mindless.’” But I merely smiled and said, “Thank you.”

Not done, she blathered on, “Now that all your friends and family have bought them, how do you plan to get anybody else to read them?”

Squelching the desire to tell her to never to consider a field in Diplomacy should she seek employment, I said, “Other people are buying them, but I blog, Twitter, Facebook, promotional stuff like that --”

“What’s a blog?” She interrupted. “And Twitter? What’s that?”

 “There’re online sites--”

“Right,” she waved me off. “But you’re not famous and nobody knows you, so how does that make anybody buy your book?”

“You know,” I said rising, “I can see Norman needs a little help with his load-in. Will you excuse me, please?”

All I can say is, sacré bleu!  Thank God for husbands.

Murder is a Family Business, book one

by

Heather Haven

Just because a man cheats on his wife and makes Danny DeVito look tall, dark and handsome, is that any reason to kill him? The reluctant and quirky PI, Lee Alvarez, doesn't think so. The 34-year old ½ Latina, ½ WASP and 100% detective has her work cut out for her when the man is murdered on her watch.  Of all the nerve.

A Wedding To Die For, book two

by

Heather Haven

A groom arrested for murder can put a crimp in anybody’s nuptials, no matter who designed the wedding gown. So when the wedding of Lee’s best friend is threatened by such a problem, thirty-four-year old Lee Alvarez heads to Mexico in search of the real killer.

Heather Haven, writer

San Jose, California 95135

408-270-6064

Heather@HeatherHavenStories.com

http://www.heatherhavenstories.com/

Heather's blog at: http://tinyurl.com/4nensnp

http://www.facebook.com

Twitter@HeatherHaven

Twitter@PILeeAlvarez

Welcome, Christine Verstraete - 10 Tips for Better Writing

Welcome,  Christine Verstraete, author of  The Killer Valentine Ball

Bio: I grew up with my nose always in a book, so it seemed a natural progression that I wanted to be a writer. A prophetic wish, it seems, judging from my favorite baby photo as seen on my website of me with a newspaper and a pencil behind my ear. I studied journalism and continue to do freelance writing for newspapers.


I also enjoy writing all kinds of fiction, with stories appearing in several anthologies including the recent Steampunk'd from DAW Books (coming out Nov. 2).

My kid's mystery, Searching for a Starry Night, A Miniature Art Mystery, was #1 on Kindle for Miniatures books and was a 2009 EPPIE Award finalist for best YA/children's ebook by the Epic Foundation.

You can learn more about Christine at:
Website: http://cverstraete.com/
Blog: http://candidcanine.blogspot.com/
Book page: http://museituppublishing.com/musepub/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=95&Itemid=82


10 Tips to Better Writing
1. Start Small

Big projects can sometimes be overwhelming. Break them into bite-size pieces. I'm guilty of stressing over not writing the 20 pages a week I'd planned. Setting goals smaller, say three pages a day, will get almost the same results, with less stress. And if you don't get the exact amount done, don't beat yourself up. Even one paragraph or page is one more than you had before, and 500 or so words closer to your final word count.



2. Believe in Yourself
A bad review can hurt, but the pain is temporary. But that inner critic that tries to hold you back and tear down your efforts (you're a lousy writer, you'll never get anywhere, why are you wasting your time?...) can be worse. Believe in you. Think on what you've accomplished and move forward. One rejection is just that. It's not the end. Don't let rejection stalk you. Send that story or project to another publication and move on to the next one. Having at least a few stories circulating (some say 10 or 12 if you can) will prevent you from obsessing over one.


3. Learn From Others

Success comes from listening to others who have already been there. Check out the experiences of other writers in your genre. Study the works of writers you admire to see how they did it. No matter how many years you've been writing, there is always something new to learn.

4. Review Yourself

A little self-evaluation can be good to gauge where you are in your writing goals and progress. Be honest; don't be afraid to point out your shortcomings, but also decide on how to improve them. Maybe you've only been published in lower paying markets and are afraid to move to the next level. Pick a market you haven't written for; study the content, and work on a story to submit. Becoming a better writer doesn't mean treading water; test the waters in new markets.

5. Make Goals
Goals keep you from stagnating, but make them reasonable. Start with one goal, like planning to get published in a new magazine in your genre, or working on a story in a different genre or field. When that goal is accomplished, make a new goal. Keep moving forward and don't stress over how long achieving that goal may take. It isn't a race. Work at the pace you feel comfortable with.


6. Seize the Day!

Swallow your fears. Some opportunities only come once. Don't be afraid to take a chance. You never know where it will lead.


7. Don't Fear Mistakes
You'll make mistakes; you'll write less than stellar stories. We all have. It's one mistake. Even if you make the same mistake, it's not the end of the world. Learn from them. Every mistake only makes you stronger.

8. Don't Be a Victim
Self-pity leads to depression, which leads to inactivity, self-doubt and can be a vicious spiral that robs you of your energy and happiness. No matter your circumstances, there is no reason to sit still and be unproductive. Don't make excuses, do something. There are tons of free resources available. Use the Internet and computers at the library. See if there is a niche in your community where you can volunteer or provide a service. See #5.


9. Be Happy

We all can't be Rockefellers or live like them. Always thinking the grass is greener on the other side will never make you satisfied. Look closer and you'll find crabgrass and weeds there, too. Enjoy your faith, friends, family, pets, and hobbies. Shut off the computer and make time to exercise and have some fun. You'll feel better and be more productive.


10. Think Positive

It takes less energy to think positive and will add more to your life and your writing.

The Killer Valentine Ball


Author: C. A. Verstraete

Cover Artist: Delilah K. Stephans

Word Count: 3,094

Pages: 15

ISBN: 978-0-9865875-6-6

Price: $0.99

Release date: October 1, 2010

Warning: Light gore

Blurb:

A party at a day camp; a blind date on Valentine's Day. Can you say loser?, Jess thinks. But this is no ordinary party. The Killer Valentine Ball has more thrills than Jess ever expected--or will ever forget.

A party at a day camp; a blind date on Valentine's Day. Can you say loser?, Jess thinks. But this is no ordinary party. The Killer Valentine Ball has more thrills than Jess ever expected--or will ever forget.

Excerpt:

As they walked into the shadows, Jess noticed that things weren't quite as they appeared. Sections of the room lightened for a moment before being cast again in deep shadow. What Jess thought she saw in that split second made her heart race. On the dance floor, the same three couples stood, clasped to each other. Jess stared. She swore they never moved.

The music played quietly in the background. When the shadows brightened, Jess caught a quick glimpse of one of the couples. The young man's mouth gaped open. His partner's gown glistened with streams of dark ribbons. The light flashed again and Jess gasped. Those weren't ribbons! The girl's dress shone with dark glimmers. Like-like blood, she thought. No, it can't be! She looked back at Dylan, who shook his head and urged her on.

"Light tricks," he whispered. "It's not real. It's Halloween stuff, like the movie. Don't worry."

Author Beware!4This page is dedicated to all the authors who have been screwed, and it’s for the up and coming writers seeking publication. Maybe you can avoid some of the mistakes other authors make.


“Pirates pilfer our work outright – We handed it to her on a silver platter and came back for more.” –Unknown Author

Unfortunately this statement is true of a lot of “publishers” out there. Your contract is only legally binding for your publisher if you can afford to take them to court. That’s right, I said it! There are some publishers out there that won’t abide by their own contracts, and what can you do if you can’t afford to take them to court? Not damn much.

So the trick is to not get caught with an awful publisher. You can’t always prevent it, but here are a few tips that will hopefully help you.

Google them. It’s easy to punch in a name and look at a couple websites to see exactly what you’re getting into, but you’d be surprised how many authors don’t do it. I understand, it might be your first offer for a contract, but do a quick celebration and then sit down and do some research.

Check with authors of that publisher or agent. I’d say ask a minimum of five authors if they have complaints. There is no maximum. Check until you feel comfortable signing that contract. And if after all that checking, you still don’t feel comfortable, then don’t sign. Go with your gut.

I’d love to be able to make my own site dedicated to giving the dirt on publishers, but I don’t have that kind of time. Here are a few resources to check to. They’re pretty reliable and spending five minutes looking up your prospective publisher can save you a world of pain in the long run. You might know about some of these, but I didn’t know about them until after I’d signed my first contract, so its possible you don’t either.
Piers Anthony

Preditors and Editors

EREC

I also suggest that you invest in a good author legal book. There are a lot out there. Just search ‘authors contract law’ on Amazon and you’ll come up with quite a few. I haven’t read any, but as soon as I have I’ll put some suggestions on this page.

To all authors with websites: Feel free to steal this page. You can copy it verbatim, I don’t care. Maybe if more authors had them then their fans who are just starting out would take these warnings to heart.

If you have any suggestions for this page, like resource sites or good author legal books that you’ve read, feel free to contact me at: honoriaravena467@yahoo.com

copied with permission from http://honoriaravena.com/author-beware

Welcome, Jessica Chambers

First, Roseanne, let me say a huge thank you for inviting me on your blog today to talk about my debut release. Now available from Red Rose Publishing , Voices On The Waves is a sweet women’s fiction novel set against the stunning backdrop of rural Cornwall. When nine individuals from all walks of life win a two-week stay at a beautiful farmhouse retreat, they’re each hoping for some rest and relaxation away from the outside world. In fact, what they get is a holiday that will change their lives forever.


In this scene, Leah Shaw has an uncomfortable encounter with one of her fellow guests, the charming but unscrupulous Marcus Armitage.

urled in the arbor, Leah attempted to lose herself in her book. She stumbled across this spot during her first tour of the grounds. It struck her then that this would be the perfect place to come when she wished to be alone to think or to read, luxuries her home life permitted little time for.

Her attention kept drifting to that morning’s episode. How could she have let her guard down like that? The combination of the sunrise and Will’s drawing must have bewitched her. Yet, however talented Will might be, it made him no more trustworthy than any other man. She couldn’t afford to make that mistake again.
Lost in her own thoughts, she only became aware someone had approached when a voice murmured in her ear. “That book must be particularly riveting if it causes my presence to go unnoticed.”

Alarmed, Leah dropped her book to the grass and stared around.

Marcus chuckled. “I’m flattered. I’m used to having a certain effect on women, but as far as I know, I’ve never been responsible for making one drop anything before. Allow me.” Bending, he retrieved the book and held it out to her.
Leah took it from him and sagged against the bench, flushing at her foolishness. For one terrible moment she’d thought… But no, the very idea was ridiculous. And yet, that caressing tone had seemed so familiar.
“Angel, are you all right?” Marcus asked, sounding concerned. “You’ve gone almost as white as my teeth.”
Leah gathered her composure. “I’m fine. Sorry, I was miles away. You startled me, that’s all.”
“My fault entirely. I should have made myself known to you sooner. Do you mind if I join you?”

“Of course not,” Leah lied. In truth, she would have liked some time alone to recover, but she could hardly refuse.
Marcus draped himself over the far end of the bench, and for a while they sat in a silence Leah found rather discomforting. Gradually, as she breathed in the rose-scented air, her shock receded. She picked up her book again, though more for the solid comfort of it than from a desire to read.

“A pleasant spot this,” Marcus said at length. “Don’t you think?”
“Yes, very.”
“Hmmm, so peaceful and secluded. When Tiffany and I came across it a couple of days ago, it struck me how it seems to have been built purely with lovers in mind. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“I … I really wouldn’t know.”
“Come now, Leah, surely you’re not immune to the aura of the place? Can you not feel the magic in the air, the tingle of romance all around us?”

Leah grew hot with embarrassment. Without needing to look, she was conscious of Marcus’s gaze on her. She buried her face in her book to conceal her blush. What was she supposed to say? At that moment, the sound of hurried footsteps saved Leah the trouble of answering. As Tiffany walked towards them, Leah didn’t think she’d ever been so relieved to see anyone in her life.
“This looks cozy.” Tiffany threw herself into Marcus’s lap and kissed him. “Didn’t expect to find you here.”
“No, well, I was looking for you.” Marcus tugged playfully at an auburn curl. “But instead I came across young Leah here. Don’t worry, she’s been taking good care of me in your absence.”
“Not too much care, I hope. I don’t want competition.”
“A little competition might do you good. Keep you on your toes. So what did you want me for?”

“Who says it was you I was after, Mr. Vain? Actually, I came to borrow Leah.”
“Me?” Leah looked up in surprise. “How come?”
“You have to help me choose an outfit for tonight. Marcus is taking me out for this really posh meal and I ain’t got a clue what to wear.”
“I’m not sure I’m the right person to ask. I’m no expert on fashion.”
“You’ll do.” Dismissing Leah’s words with a wave, Tiffany stood. “Come on, we’d better get started if I’m going to look my best.”
“Angel, you’d look lovely in an old sack,” Marcus said.
Tiffany colored prettily.
Gathering up her book, Leah allowed Tiffany to link her arm through hers and lead her towards the house. She hadn’t gone far when the feeling of being watched made her glance back. She met Marcus’s eyes for an instant, and something about their speculative gleam filled her with unease.


Buy Voices ON The Waves now from Red Rose Publishing

http://redrosepublishing.com/books/product_info.php?products_id=85
Thank you again for having me, Roseanne, and to all of you for stopping by. Anyone kind enough to leave a comment here, or at any point during my blog tour, will automatically be entered into the draw to win a $15 gift voucher for either Amazon or Barnes & Noble, so don’t forget to provide an email address in case I need to contact you. I’ll be announcing the five winners at the end of my tour on October 31st over at my blog

http://www.jessicachambers.co.uk/blog
Tomorrow, the Voices On The Waves Blog Tour continues over at the home of Franny Armstrong’s character blog, where Leah will be telling her story. Hope to see you there!

http://paranovelgirl.blogspot.com/

Welcome, Ginger Simpson

Career Choices

Most of you who know me, only know me as Ginger Simpson, the author. I doubt many of you realize that I drove a school bus for five years and many brain cells ago. I thought I might share some of what I learned with you. Every experience in our lives impacts us in some way, and I think driving a bus gave me some insight and inspiration for my upcoming young adult release, Shortcomings.

Driving bus seemed like the perfect job for a working mom…morning rounds, a kindergarten pick-up at noon, and then afternoon rounds. In between I dashed home, cleaned house, grocery shopped, ran errands then returned to the transportation yard to finish up for the day. I actually got to spend time with my son who was only two at the time. But I discovered later how clueless I was.

The bummer part was learning. All the seasoned drivers had the big, fancy crown diesels with dual wheels in the back…the ones that held ninety-one screaming children. The new people had to drive the old conventional ones…the ones with power steering in only one direction, and holes in the seats. I guess I should also mention the one with the spring that fell off the accelerator and stuck full throttle. Luckily I was alone at the time so no one saw me panic. Did you know that even if the engine is running full boar you can still stop by using the brakes, you don’t have to run off into a ditch?

When you’re a newbie, you have to be a substitute for others when they’re out. Boy that was fun. You found out who had rules and who didn’t. Somehow I always got stuck driving for the same driver…the one who evidently wore ear plugs and blinders. We drivers had just been instructed by the Highway Patrol to make sure we pulled as far to the right as possible when we stopped to cross children. Of course, you have to put on your flashing reds and take your little stop sign and walk the little dears across the street. The high school kids really love that!

The first time I subbed for good ol’ twenty-one, I had no idea what I had gotten into. On the first stop, I pulled just as far over as I could, turned on the lights and opened the door. I got up to lead the departees out the door. Ever stood dominos in a line and pushed the rear one forward? Well, to make a long story shorter, everyone was in a hurry. The back of the bus was in the front long before I stopped. So, add in the domino effect, and I went out the door, but not of my own accord.

I probably would have been hurt much more, if I hadn’t pulled close enough to the right, thus allowing me to fall into an irrigation ditch where the water cushioned my landing. I seem to have a thing for ditches. Thank goodness, I had traffic backed in both directions so I didn’t have to share my embarrassing moment alone. So, no one can say I didn’t do the hard knocks to earn my own bus.

Most of the kids are all right. The good thing is they are only on your bus just long enough for you to want to kill them then they get off. You have a cool-down period between pick-ups, so you can get ready for the next bunch. I think bus driving was the impetus behind the hand gun laws.

You learn a lot driving a bus. Things like, they hold off giving inoculations until right before they board the bus for home. Ever had twenty screamers in the vehicle while you drive? I have. When one kid pukes, it can cause a chain reaction. Gag and the world gags with you.

And high school students will try to smoke just to see if they can getaway with it. At least until I stopped the bus and walked to the back with the fire extinguisher. “Would you like me to put that out or would you like to do it?” It worked. No smoking on my bus, buster!

Oh, and let’s not forget the perks of field trips. I got to drive the HS Marching Band to Disneyland for three consecutive years. I can’t explain why I did it for the second two, but I imagined having a romp roaring time in the park with the kids on the first one. WRONG. The drivers didn’t get to go in. They had an all-night coffee and donut stand where most of the old men that drove tour buses gathered to play poker, but unless your school “kicked down” for a room, you got to sleep in the bus. Imagine trying to sleep on a school bus seat. Now imagine it with “It’s a Small World” playing continuously the entire night. I hate that song now!

Sometimes, your own bus had to be serviced and you were forced to revert back to one of the old conventionals. I had a favorite…number eight! Number seven only had power steering in one direction and sometimes not even that, and six just was too dang ugly. Number eight was the only automatic transmission bus we had. On the morning of my appointed service day, I came in and fueled up number eight and got “her” ready. We had a routine: come in early, wash the windshield, gas it up, sweep it out, check out the lights, let it warm up, and go in the lounge and have coffee while you waited.

The busses were parked in a single line in the middle of a big yard, thus allowing you to drive out of your slot, turn left and go behind the line to the gas pump. Number eight was second from the very end, closest to the exit gate, with the fuel pump being at the other end. In order to get back into line after I fueled, I really had to crank hard to make it.

So, now my bus is ready, warming up, and I’m in for coffee and war stories till my pick-up time. In about five minutes, someone stuck their head in the door and asked who was driving number eight.

“Me, I’ve already fueled it and checked it out.” I possessively announced.

Imagine my surprise when she told me that it was just going out the gate. I was ticked. How dare someone take the bus I’d already checked out? I ran outside prepared to do battle. Someone was about to get a piece of my mind. Taking someone else’s ride that’s road ready is not bus etiquette.

Much to my dismay what I saw was my supervisor chasing a driverless bus through the gate. Now, if I hadn’t already believed in God, this would have cinched his existence for me. I forgot to take the bus out of drive—not used to an automatic—and since I had cranked the wheels so hard to get back into line, they were turned just enough to avoid disaster. When the motor warmed up and overrode the parking break, number eight crept out of line, made a perfect left-hand turn, and went right out the gate. Now mind you, it did this while clearing the busses on both sides AND getting through the gate all on its own. Luckily, the furrows in the field across the street eventually stopped it. You ask why I think God intervened? Because, directly in front of where number eight was parked were six brand new driver’s ed cars. So, yes there is a God, and he does drive a school bus.

I’m going to be sharing more stories like these on my own blog, so please drop by http://mizging.blogspot.com and become a regular at Dishin’ It Out. You can find my books listed there, and on my website, http://www.gingersimpson.com

Welcome, David J. Normoyle

Games of Thrones - a tribute.

Thanks for hosting me, Roseanne. I want to talk about my favourite book today.

It's Game of Thrones, the first book in the George R.R. Martin's Song of Fire
and Ice Series.

We enter a world with a host of breathtakingly original characters. Each one has
their own motivations, desires and flaws. Usually in books, you know that the
good guys will survive despite the dangerous situations they get themselves
into, but not here. No one is safe; anyone can die at any time. We don't even
know who the good guys are, and who the bad guys are. Everyone is a shade of
grey. Characters who you haven't figured out are good or bad do things which you
aren't sure are right or wrong.

Their world is a medieval one with fantasy elements. It's a large interesting
place, with kingdoms and fiefdoms, cities and mountains. The characters traverse
it: plotting, fighting, escaping, living, dying. It's an adult world, not
sanitised, with sex, cursing, war, incest, death. It's not easy to make the best
decision even for the most noble characters, as every choice has uncertain
ramifications. They have to throw the dice, with their lives and often thousands
of other lives on a knife edge.

Every chapters forms a short story with a distinct beginning, middle and end.

Generally the ending of every chapter is a new twist or surprise which leaves
you wanting more, only to find out that George R.R. Martin has taken you to a
new character who will face different challenges. As the book progresses the
characters' journeys weaves around each other, creating the a coherent story.

There are now four books released in the series and my only criticism is the
length of time the author is taking to produce the next one. In the meantime,
HBO are creating a mini-series based on the books with a host of great actors
including Sean Bean. It promises to be fantastic and is due out next year.

That series is my Everest as I embark on my writing career. It's fantastic to
have as an inspiration even if I never scale the heights.

My first novel Crimson Dream a Young Adult Fantasy, is released in February.

Check out my website: www.davidjnormoyle.com for further details or follow my
facebook: http://www.facebook.com/pages/David-J-Normoyle/157832707561908


BLURB

Centuries ago, Deren's people fled to a hidden valley deep in the mountains

chased by the Domain, whose powerful Seers could not find them.

Deren’s safe world disintegrates when his vision foretells his sister’s death by
a Domain soldier. Deren can't defend Bennie because of his asthmatic attacks, so
he trains her in archery and prepares his people for war against their ancient
foe.

As the invasion advances, Bennie's mastery of the bow leads her along unexpected
paths. Although she hates killing, she must make hard choices. Her loved ones
will die if she doesn't help them.

Will Bennie’s encounter with an enemy prince prove the key to survival? Can

Deren overcome his physical weaknesses and the doubts of his own father to lead
his people?
With fate and overwhelming force stacked against them, it seems their best
efforts will be in vain.

EXCERPT

Deren tried to get up to help Oso and Bennie and fell onto his back. He began to
gasp, his breath labouring through his lungs, fighting for every mouthful. He
took deep sucking drags of air, clutching his neck with his hands. His own lungs
were drowning him, refusing to breathe. He looked into the sky, thinking he
would die. Although it was only twilight, a ghostly moon peeked over the trees.
Whistling noises crept up and down his throat. He prayed to the Goddess of the
Moon. Yenara, help me. Please, don't let me die. Bennie needs me. Please.

A face swam across his vision. "Deren, are you okay?" the face asked. "Deren,
try to calm yourself."
The voice was laden with worry. A hand touched the side of his face. Warm drops
landed on his forehead. "Don't give up on me," the voice said in a fierce
whisper.

Welcome, Larriane Wills/Larion Wills

Museitup, my new publisher, by Larriane Wills, aka Larion Wills, two names, one author, thousands of stories.

When I began publishing just over four years ago, I lucked into a publisher just as new as I was. We grew and learned together, they as publishers, me as an author and then an editor for them. When they were forced to close to submissions, I felt lost. I drifted for nearly a year after we received the news, telling my husband I hadn’t decided where to submit every time he asked what I was going to do. Where was I going to find another publisher, only that wasn’t the biggest concern I had. That are so many publishers out there, surely I wouldn’t have a problem finding another one who liked my stories, but…I was spoiled, okay? Where I had been I felt like one of a family, part of a unit, a real person, not an entity behind a title. If I had a question, it was answered, about anything. I felt like I had friends there, not just associates. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying all publishers treat you with indifference as a person, caring only about the product. I knew from various blogs and asking other authors that many publishers worked with the authors on a personal level. I searched their sites. None gave me the ‘that is where I might feel comfortable’ feeling.

As I write in multi-genre, many of those I looked at carried a limited amount of genres to represent, not including all of those I write in. I really wanted just one publisher to represent me in all I do. I’m far from the most organized person, and the least amount of places, preferences, and etc I have to keep track of the better for me. I had several ready for submission and still dragged my feet, and then a friend mentioned another new publisher, started by someone I knew. I’m not going to go into all of Lea’s qualifications in operating a publishing company. I’m sure that’s been done already many times in this series of blogs this month, and will be many times more.

I will say that sense of familiarity was something I’d been looking for. I’ve not been disappointed, not in the people I’ve come in contact, new and old (meaning I knew them before, not a reference to their ages) and even though Museitup is new, not even official launched, the amount of pre-opening preparations are impressive, enough so that I’ve submitted three manuscripts, all accepted, and plan on submitting more. Lea keeps us well informed with no questions on when or how my manuscript will be treated, and from the few times I’ve had some questions, I know how I will be treated, not like a stranger bothering the boss, but like a respected colleague and friend.

My first release with Museitup Publishing will be in the spring of 2011. White Savage is the fifth of my western romance series. In Nov the 6th of the series, Tarbet will be released. In between those, one of my contemporaries, Chase will hit the bookstore.

Here’s a sneak peek at White Savage for you, an unedited blurb and excerpt.

Rescued from the Apaches, everyone told McGee the boy had been too long with the Indians and could never learn to live as a white man again. Ten years after Johns steals the boy away, McGee is afraid they were right. Or had they mistaken an innocent man for Jimmy when they took him prisoner, calling him a rapist as well as a thief and murderer after he escaped from them? And what about then rancher’s wife they claimed Jimmy tried to rape and then kidnapped? What secrets did she hide?

Exerpt: Jimmy couldn’t write. The colonel come in to hand him paper and pencil to write the names of his folks down so’s they could let them know where he was. Jimmy threw the pencil down and turned his head away from them.

“Don’t matter none you cain’t write. Most out here cain’t,” McGee said, picking the pencil up for the colonel. “Cain’t my ownself.”

“Does he even understand English?” the colonel asked.

“Sure he does. Don’t ya, Jimmy?” Jimmy stared back at him. “Jimmy, he knows ya cain’t talk. Ya just nod yar head, so’s the colonel knows you understand.”

“He doesn’t,” the colonel declared when Jimmy didn’t respond. “He’s been with them too long, McGee. He’ll never adjust to being white again.”

“Ain’t so,” McGee argued.

“Look at his eyes, McGee. He resents you, and I’ve heard how he fights everything you try to do for him.”

“Ain’t ‘cause of that. It’s cause he’s hurting.”

“I don’t know what we’re going to do with him if no one claims him,” the colonel said, avoiding anymore argument.

“Ya don’t need ta worry yerself none. He’s going with me.”
http://www.larriane.com/ is my site link where you’ll find more on the upcoming releases through Museitup Publishing.

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.”

Welcome, David J. Normoyle

Games of Thrones - a tribute.

Thanks for hosting me, Roseanne. I want to talk about my favourite book today.

It's Game of Thrones, the first book in the George R.R. Martin's Song of Fire
and Ice Series.

We enter a world with a host of breathtakingly original characters. Each one has
their own motivations, desires and flaws. Usually in books, you know that the
good guys will survive despite the dangerous situations they get themselves
into, but not here. No one is safe; anyone can die at any time. We don't even
know who the good guys are, and who the bad guys are. Everyone is a shade of
grey. Characters who you haven't figured out are good or bad do things which you
aren't sure are right or wrong.

Their world is a medieval one with fantasy elements. It's a large interesting
place, with kingdoms and fiefdoms, cities and mountains. The characters traverse
it: plotting, fighting, escaping, living, dying. It's an adult world, not
sanitised, with sex, cursing, war, incest, death. It's not easy to make the best
decision even for the most noble characters, as every choice has uncertain
ramifications. They have to throw the dice, with their lives and often thousands
of other lives on a knife edge.

Every chapters forms a short story with a distinct beginning, middle and end.

Generally the ending of every chapter is a new twist or surprise which leaves
you wanting more, only to find out that George R.R. Martin has taken you to a
new character who will face different challenges. As the book progresses the
characters' journeys weaves around each other, creating the a coherent story.

There are now four books released in the series and my only criticism is the
length of time the author is taking to produce the next one. In the meantime,
HBO are creating a mini-series based on the books with a host of great actors
including Sean Bean. It promises to be fantastic and is due out next year.

That series is my Everest as I embark on my writing career. It's fantastic to
have as an inspiration even if I never scale the heights.
My first novel Crimson Dream a Young Adult Fantasy, is released in February.

Check out my website: www.davidjnormoyle.com for further details or follow my
facebook: http://www.facebook.com/pages/David-J-Normoyle/157832707561908

BLURB

Centuries ago, Deren's people fled to a hidden valley deep in the mountains
chased by the Domain, whose powerful Seers could not find them.

Deren’s safe world disintegrates when his vision foretells his sister’s death by
a Domain soldier. Deren can't defend Bennie because of his asthmatic attacks, so
he trains her in archery and prepares his people for war against their ancient
foe.

As the invasion advances, Bennie's mastery of the bow leads her along unexpected
paths. Although she hates killing, she must make hard choices. Her loved ones
will die if she doesn't help them.

Will Bennie’s encounter with an enemy prince prove the key to survival? Can
Deren overcome his physical weaknesses and the doubts of his own father to lead
his people?

With fate and overwhelming force stacked against them, it seems their best
efforts will be in vain.


EXCERPT
Deren tried to get up to help Oso and Bennie and fell onto his back. He began to

gasp, his breath labouring through his lungs, fighting for every mouthful. He
took deep sucking drags of air, clutching his neck with his hands. His own lungs
were drowning him, refusing to breathe. He looked into the sky, thinking he
would die. Although it was only twilight, a ghostly moon peeked over the trees.

Whistling noises crept up and down his throat. He prayed to the Goddess of the
Moon. Yenara, help me. Please, don't let me die. Bennie needs me. Please.
A face swam across his vision. "Deren, are you okay?" the face asked. "Deren,
try to calm yourself."
The voice was laden with worry. A hand touched the side of his face. Warm drops
landed on his forehead. "Don't give up on me," the voice said in a fierce
whisper.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My first novel, Crimson Dream, will be published on 01022011

Check out www.davidjnormoyle.com for details

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My newest cover

From MuseItUp Publishing. http://museituppublishing.com/musepub/

Delilah does such great work.


Two murders, two men, one with five-year old twin daughters, complicate life for Kate Wesley. When the identical twin sister of one of the murder victims arrives in town more confusion erupts. Can Kate sort through this mess that has suddenly become her life?