Champagne Books Blog

Friends - by Michael Davis

2009-12-22T00:01:00.000-05:00

Strange thing happened the other day. I picked up one of my novels that I hadn’t touched since it came out in paperback. For some reason, I had a yearning to visit the words and lines again. It was like there was something missing and for some weird reason, I just wanted to re-read the story. I know, after proofing and editing the thing three dozen times, you’d think I’d never go near it again, but as I got about a quarter way through, that empty feeling started to diminish. Then it hit me. I actually missed the characters. It was if I had been away from best friends and missed the comfort they brought me whenever they were around.

Yeah, I know, very particular, but in my head the characters exist; they’re not just fictional images I conjured up in my head, they are flesh and blood, and I miss them.

I wonder if other authors ever sense that absence of the friends that came to life in their stories and go back to revisit the words and lines again. Nah, probably just the weirdo big guy (g).

Michael Davis (Davisstories.com)

Author of the year, 2008

Viral Variation

2009-12-21T00:01:00.000-05:00

Viral Variation

By Julie Eberhart Painter

'Twas the night before deadline and all through the house
No software was stirring, not even my mouse.
The research was sitting all snug in a file
For references handy to notes I'd compiled.

The children were grownups >Twas time to create
For artistic achievement, it's never too late.
I wore no kerchief, my husband no cap,
That's totally unnecessary when you're taking a nap.

I'd just nodded off when a noise loud and clear
Interrupted my slumber, my nap disappeared.
And out on the rooftop there came a loud racket
I sat up in my chair. "We're expecting a packet?"

But what to my horrified eyes should appear
But a feline intruder, who grinned ear to ear.
His eyes were all bugged, his lips, red and scary
I jumped from my lounger; no time did I tarry.

He ran toward my office, my work to attack.
I heard a loud clatter and then a big crack.
He streaked to the keyboard and leaped with a clatter.
I flew to my Windows XP, "What's the matter?"

Catbert stood perched with paws fairly flying.
"My book is deleting!" I heard myself crying.
And there in the email that I thought was protected
A McAfee note proclaimed, "Virus Detected."

The book was erasing, one byte at a time,
"Champagne will fire me. I'll get not a dime."

Quicken's tax program dissolved before me,
While The Evil HR Director ignored me.

The voltage protector was screaming in pain
The heart of my hard drive was losing its brain.

Floppies and CDS, in rank disarray,
Lay littered before me to my great dismay.
The printer kept spewing the book from before this.
"Not that one, the new one!" I barely could hiss.

He sprang on hind legs, then arching his back,
Said, "Just take the Kill Fee, you incredible hack.
Go back to your day job; stop screwing around,
And if you want a nice kitty, try accessing The Pound.

On Road Runner, on Dot coms, on AOL, too,
Get on with the havoc. We've got work to do."

And I heard him exclaim >ere he drove out of sight,
"Let's crash Mystery Writers; they deserve a good blight.
So to all you Romantics, these words of advice:
Don't write sex scenes at Christmas, that's really not nice!"

Julie Eberhart Painter, author of Mortal Coil, contributed this for the Season. Her next Champagne book will be released in May 2010. Check out Julie’s website
www.books-jepainter.com

Kate’s Christmas Miracle by Allison Knight

2009-12-20T00:01:00.001-05:00

Kate’s Christmas Miracle

Kate hated Christmas time.

Three long years ago, a week before Christmas, she’d wished her finance God speed and sent him off to join the war. Last year, a few days before the holiday, her father had taken ill and soon joined her mother who had died before Kate had reached her second birthday.

Nor had she heard from Philip. The war between the states raged on and the news

filtered so slowly to the community. For almost two years there had been no word, no letter from Philip. When her limited fund were depleted, she had no choice but to move into Aunt Sophia’s house.

Now, the war was over and people in the north seemed so much happier.

Except for her! She was little more than a servant in her aunt's home. Not that it

mattered for without Philip...

She sobered and remembered the tasks she had to accomplish this day. There was

still much to do. Aunt Sophia made that clear only this morning when she announced the

house had to be immaculate for her soiree. Kate wondered if Aunt Sophia even knew what a soiree was, because no one in Albany held soirees.

She gazed at the pile of split logs nestled in the snow. They had to be stacked

beside the fireplaces or the women would freeze to death in their ball gowns. She grabbed

the hem of her long skirt and huddled into her woolen cloak. The sooner she got the wood

inside the faster she’d get warm.

As she toted wood into the house she grimaced. Aunt Sophia had declared she could attend this evening’s entertainment, but Kate had nothing to wear.

Sophia’s youngest daughter had offered one of her own gowns, but the two women were too different in size for the gown to fit properly. No, Kate wouldn’t be attending this party.

After lunch, she grabbed her scrub brush and pail of water. The foyer floor needed

a good cleaning before she retreated to the kitchen to help cook.

As she scrubbed she planned her own evening. Long before the guests began to

arrive, she’d prepare some warm soup, escape to her room and read one of her penny novels. With part of the floor cleaned, she leaned back to rest. She threw the brush into

the pail and rubbed the perspiration from her forehead. Much to her disgust, some hair from her bun had loosened. She twisted the strand back into the knot at the back of her head. It reminded her of the times Philip had run his hands through her long curls. Now

there was no time to fix her hair into curls. Nor was there any need, for she had no place

to go.

She sighed and her heart felt heavy. This war had robbed so many women of their

men. Of course, she and Philip never had the chance to marry and perhaps if they had, her

life would be different now.

With no effort at all, she could still imagine his smiling face, hear his deep

laugh, picture his twinkling eyes as he described the escapades of the young soldiers under his command. She wondered if he’d known of her father’s death or because of it that she was alone and had to move to Aunt Sophia’s house.

“Oh, Philip, I miss you so,” she whispered and whisked the moisture from her eyes with her apron.

This won’t do, she told herself and grabbed for the scrub brush. Mooning over what might have been accomplished nothing.

She had almost finished when the front door knocker sounded. With nothing but a

dirt path to the porch, whoever sought entrance would track mud and slush across the floor she’d just cleaned. Some unladylike words came to mind.

She looked a sight, certainly in no condition to admit her aunt’s caller. With

escape her only option, she wiped at her damp hands, grabbed her pail and ran for the

kitchen. Polly was close at hand and could answer the door.

“I’ve nearly finished but there’s a visitor at the door,” she said, when Cook

glanced up from a pot of cinnamon apples with a questioning look. “I’ll have to finished

later. Now, what can I do to help you?” Kate asked retrieving the brush and pail she’d

emptied off the back porch.

“You don’t have time to help anyone.” Polly’s voice announced from the door to the kitchen. “The visitor wants to see you.”

A swell of fear clogged Kate’s throat. She knew it had to be someone coming to tell her where and how Philip had died. She’d rather the message go to another in the family. Of course, she was being cowardly, but with her afternoon memories still so fresh in her mind, hearing about Philip now would hurt all the more.

“Can you ask the visitor to leave a message?” Kate asked.

“No I can’t. He is demanding to speak to you. I told him to wait in the parlor. But

you’d best tidy up a bit.” Polly giggled. “You look like a scullery maid.” She trotted away before Kate could object.

“Go on, child,” Cook nodded toward the back stairs.

Kate took an inordinate amount of time to repair her appearance. She didn’t want to do this but when her aunt’s voice echoed through the stairwell, Kate knew she could delay no longer.

When she reached the main floor her aunt was waiting.

“In the parlor.” Aunt Sophia looked unhappy. She was a compassionate woman, so the news would be bad.

With her heart in her mouth, her steps dragging, she made her way to the parlor,

now adorned in all it’s Christmas finery.

A tall man stood at the window, his face hidden in the afternoon shadows. His

stance looked so familiar, Kate was certain her afternoon memories had conjured up the

image. Then he turned and her breath caught.

No, it couldn't be. She was losing her mind. Then he spoke.

“I couldn’t find you. Why are you here?” he asked, his husky voice impatient.

“Oh, Philip, is it really you?” Kate took a step forward then hesitated “I thought

you had died. I didn’t hear from you forever and then Father passed on. I had no other

place to go.”

“I thought you had married someone else.”

She moved closer until she was in arm's reach.

“Only you,” she whispered and reached up to touch his face.

“Then how does a Christmas wedding sound?” he asked, pulling her into his arms.

“Like a miracle,” Kate said and laid her head against his shoulder. “A Christmas

miracle.”

Trailer: All I Want for Christmas by Cindy K. Green

2009-12-18T00:01:00.004-05:00

Me...A Flea by Angelica Hart & Zi

2009-12-17T00:01:00.001-05:00

ME… A FLEA?

On a daily basis our characters’ unique personalities pull our thoughts toward the concept of perception. “Fleas know not whether they are upon the body of a giant or upon one of ordinary stature,” wrote the poet Landor. As a flea in the world of writing, I know that Angelica is giantesque.

Zi was immediately interrupted by Angelica asking, “Where are you going with this? Is this about my weight?”

Zi replies, “Weight? You’ve weight?” And he smiles.

We understand that perception is reality and our job as writers is to take that word clay and prepare it for the kiln so when fired it creates images. Some are thought provoking, others ugly, some funny. But there are those days when we utterly fail to understand. Thus, bringing to our humble attention one very simple fact, we like many of our manuscripts are works in progress.

Below is an excerpt from KILLER DOLLS, a soon to be Champagne Books release, we hope you enjoy it.

EXCERPT TWO

They got a room, asked to use the phone, storm had the lines down, asked about a cell phone and the clerk, a man of advanced age, looked at Taut as if he were an alien, paid in cash, parked out of view, and entered a nice but tacky cabin room.

“I see that shabby-chic is nouveau. The guest towels say… well used. Look, a bottle of shampoo. I used this stuff when I was a kid. It bubbles." Letti was rambling and gently ranting to cover her fear. She now understood the gravity of the situation; it was real, though she did not know why two very evil men were chasing them. Nor why they had her dolls. Why? The dual whys came out in unattractive rumbling, its blasphemy a cruel sacrilege.

“I am sleeping where?” asked Taut. The room had one bed.

“Between me and the door… and that window.”

_____

We'd love to hear from anyone interested in what we do. Anyone who writes us and leaves an s-mail address, we will send you a gift and add you to any future mailings.

Angelica Hart and Zi
KILLER DOLLS ~ September 2009
SNAKE DANCE ~ February 2010
CHASING GRAVITAS ~ July 2010
angelicahartandzi@yahoo.com
angelicahartandzi.com

KILLER DOLLS can be purchased at
Champagne Books
http://www.champagnebooks.com/

Perils of Promoting with Nancy Henderson

2009-12-15T00:01:00.001-05:00

There are so many promotional opportunities for writers nowadays. How do you know which are the most effective?

I try to write two books a year. In addition, I hold a full time job and have family responsibilities. I’m on Myspace, Twitter, I maintain a blog on my website, and I belong to a group blog, The Writers Vineyard. Plus I write the occasional article at various guest blogs and promo sites. I don’t always have time to fit everything in. In fact, oftentimes I feel like I’m running around doing ten different things at once.

Do the majority of these things work as effective promotion tools? My friends twelve year old claims Myspace is “Soooo yesterday.” Twitter, or Tweeting, she says, is “like totally rockin’.” Ok, so maybe I should focus on my Tweets.

But I like to guest blog. I love meeting new readers, visiting others’ sites, and hopefully gain a few new followers who might not have found me on my own site.

So what works? I’m not altogether sure, but I press on. I might not be the most organized person in the world, but I’m getting my name out there. And hey, when I pen the next bestseller, people will sure know where to find me!

Thanks for reading,
Nancy

http://www.nancyhenderson.com

Excerpt - Only One of Its Kind by Jane Toombs

2009-12-14T00:01:00.001-05:00

"ONLY ONE OF ITS KIND"

Champagne Books www.champagnebooks.com

A Christmas short story

Excerpt:

Last of all, I had to tell Annalee about the trip with Hal. "Hope you don't have any dates for us the week before Christmas," I began.

She widened her golden eyes at me, then shut them and winced. "Not again, Arno. Please don't tell me you're flying off somewhere at Christmas time."

What could I say to her, my beautiful Annalee? In a way it'd be easier not to be here at Christmas, not to look at each other, knowing all our attempts to produce our own little Christmas angel had failed. But I couldn't say that. She'd begun to talk adoption, but I want my own kid, not someone else's. Wrong-headed, maybe, but I often am, much as I love Annalee.

"I've never been gone at Christmas before," I pointed out.

"Maybe not. But how about my sister's wedding? And the Gilbert's anniversary party? I'm getting fed up with having to break commitments because you suddenly get an urge for the wild blue yonder."

"This time it's strictly business. Hal Peterson is stuck with a demand trip to Central America, and he needs a pilot." Which was more or less true.

She told me where I could go, what Hal could do with the trip and where the plane could be put, permanently. Annalee has quite a vocabulary.

Then I got the silent treatment, with Rufus our cat glaring at me balefully. He hates it when we have a disagreement. The day before I left, visualizing her putting up the damn hokey tree and decorating it all by herself, I promised to be home in time to help her if it killed me. So then we had a tearful parting scene after all.

What worries my wife is that I'm going to crash. I've shown her statistics, even acted insulted because she doubted my flying ability, but nothing can convince her that small planes are safe. Though most private plane crashes are pilot error, try to convince Annalee. She sees them as instances of some huge hand plucking the plane out of the sky on a whim. Try to argue with that.

Champagne Books & Carnal Passion Present: Christmas Is Better With Two Christmas Chat

2009-12-13T00:53:00.000-05:00

WHO’S YOUR EDITOR? by Jim Woods

2009-12-11T00:01:00.000-05:00

WHO’S YOUR EDITOR?

by Jim Woods

Every writer needs an editor. A qualification to that assertion: Every writer who expects or wants to be published, requires an editor in his corner. And in using the “in your corner” metaphor, I don’t necessarily imply a supporter, although he/she certainly could be. It’s more like the pugilist’s “cut man”– someone to stave the flow of blood, tape over the wounds, and shove you back into the ring when the bell sounds.

The professional writers who may be reading this know what I will expound here, and are excused. It’s you aspiring authors to whom this is addressed.

There are three stages of editing before publication, with the initial stage, self-editing, being perhaps the most important. There was a golden time, I’m told, when the gift of story telling, in handwritten script, or composed on old-fashioned typewriter keys, was all that was necessary to sell a story or a book. Someone from the publisher’s editorial staff who worked closely with the artist-writer coaxed the promising tale into publishable form. Those good old days have joined the rest of ancient history.

Nowadays if the writer isn’t also the first-line editor, there may not be another reader except himself. Well, of course the work will be read and no doubt appreciated by family and friends, but that’s not editing. I’ll return to that blasphemy later; we’re in the midst of self-editing.

Editing your own is tough; I won’t kid you on that. It’s akin to looking critically at your own child and admitting to what the neighbors are whispering, “There’s something wrong with that kid!” You have to take an objective look, and accept that his ears are too big. Since all newborns are beautiful though, you have to make the critical appraisal a few days following the birth.

With your manuscript, put it away for a week or two while you are off to other projects. Then read it objectively. Start by eliminating words. You can do it! Line through the words with a colored pen; hit the delete key. Take it out! Examine the copy word by word and take out all the words that really don’t have to be there. Sure, this is going to slim down the manuscript; that’s part of what we’re after. Following that, look critically at each adjective. Experiment with changes to them. Make sure that each of them imparts exactly your intended characteristic to the noun it modifies. Look at all the short, choppy sentences. Combine them. Vary the sentence lengths and patterns. Search out those favorite words that you have used twice in the same sentence and four times on every page. Find a different word for ninety percent of them. Rewrite! There is nothing sacred about a first, or second or third draft. None of it is final until it goes to press, and mistakes found after the presses roll might as well be etched in stone; they are around forever.

Going to press is pushing the schedule a bit for now though. It’s time to turn the manuscript over to your editor. Not your mother who’s an English teacher; not your daughter who’s a psychology major; not your fishing buddy who swears along with you about the giant bass that jumped off your hook. Of course you are going to impose of friends and family to read your Great American Novel. Of course they will shower you with accolades. That’s what friends and family are for. The frontispieces of first novels are filled with expressions of appreciation for all the readers who encouraged the authors. The friends would be hurt if their names are not noted and the author would feel guilty for leaving someone out.

Technical and academic books are different. The name listed as author usually is not the sole creator. That author grants proper credit to those professional associates and research staff who gave aid in assembling the book. Those acknowledgements may become résumé entries for those otherwise anonymous toilers behind the scene. In your short story or novel it’s hardly necessary to name every friend who offered encouragement to your creative efforts, and your professional editor does not expect recognition there.

That editor may be a friend, or at least friendly, but more than likely you’ll see him/her as an adversary. It’s not his job to stroke and soothe. If fact he may be totally devoid of bedside manner. You need someone who can get down to the business of editing, unencumbered by personal feeling for the author; however, it’s not his job to destruct simply because he has that power. Let’s assume you have made your arrangement with him based on the recommendation of other professionals. You probably will have had a personal consultation with him. Once you have come to a professional and financial understanding, accept and act on his advice and criticism.

It is quite within the realm of possibility that your professional editor will return your manuscript with little criticism and only a few changes redlined in the margins. Congratulations. You do good work. You obviously have paid attention in creative-writing classes and have studied the self-help writing/editing books. However, just because your manuscript was not mutilated does not indicate that your editor didn’t read and analyze it. Personally, when I find a manuscript page that doesn’t call for my red pen somewhere, I initial the page just to assure my client that indeed I have read it. I must say though, that few page get only my initials in the corner.

Okay. Review your editor’s corrections, make the ones you agree to or that the editor has convinced you should be made, and once again, re-write. Now, does this mean automatically that the publisher of your choice will accept your story or novel without further change? An emphatic No! However, it does mean that the publisher may take the time to read the story through simply because it was professionally presented to him in the first place. Let’s assume that it is accepted. Now the staff editor gets his crack at it.

Your independent editor would not have known which publication or publisher would wind up with your creation. That eventual publisher may specify a different style guide than that used by your independent editor. These style guides are decidedly similar, but different publishers and organizations hold differing opinions on word usage and punctuation. As a writer myself, I once was exposed to a company editor whose first rule was that the word “albeit” was never to be used‒period! I probably would not have used it, albeit a proper word. To satisfy the editor who authorizes the payment to you, you’ll just have to take out the “albeits.”

That final editor and his staff also will do some fact checking if warranted, and the publisher’s legal expert will “edit” for libel, plagiarism, privacy invasion and copyright infringement opportunities. Finally, the copy editor will check the spelling of every word, even though the author originally employed his computer spell-checker and the interim independent editor found those words spelled correctly but misused in the story’s structure. The author may get the opportunity to incorporate the publisher’s corrections, but more than likely will be surprised at them once the story sees print.

One time I “sold” (read “donated”) a short story to a Canadian anthology publisher. I had been thorough with the pre-editing and the story had been passed-on by a second editor. The setting was the southern region of the United States; the language proper for the time and locale. In the publisher’s final editing, two or three of my carefully selected words and phrasings had been Anglicized, an alteration necessary for that publisher’s primarily north-of-the-border market. If may not have destroyed my creation, but certainly sullied my story’s authentic Southern flavor. The editor had the last word, as usual.

~ * ~

The Tight Rope - by Michael Davis

2009-12-10T00:01:00.000-05:00

Like most readers, I want to be taken away from my everyday world when I dive between the pages. The words and images must grab me and not let go. Few authors can do that for me anymore with the thousands of books I’ve read. That’s one of two reasons I don’t read as much fiction as I did twenty years ago (the other is a lack of time given I’ve become consumed by my own demanding muse). So what is it that envelops my mind and encourages me to escape from my life until I reach the last word of a story? Three things:

1. The Voice – The cadence and rhythm of the words must sing in resonance with my inner self so that I am comforted by reading vs. seeing.

2. Realism – Whether its SF, thriller, romantic suspense, doesn’t matter; the descriptions, the characters, the scenes must appear realistic and complete enough that I can form vivid flowing visions in my head.

3. Struggle – The characters most be flawed, if not they’re unreal and incapable of creating empathy with their plight

All three are important to me as a reader, and I would assume the same could be said of many readers. Now, voice is very important, but I don’t find that to be the most difficult in creating my stories. That just seems to come natural, maybe because the voice that goes on paper is actually the voice running in head (I know, I’m a weird dude). However, as a writer item 2 and 3 above require the author to walk two tight ropes, and accordingly are the most difficult to achieve without going to far.

The first tightrope requires balance between too much or too little realism. If we go to far in realism or in the character’s struggles the reader can be insulted, revolted, or overwhelmed with the imaginary. Go to little and the reader becomes uninterested, bored, or remains outside the story. The second tightrope deals with balancing the story with our own belief system or morality, which may not be in tune with the latest fad or the PC police. Need an example? I’ll give you two:

1. My first novel, TAINTED HERO, was about an officer in the special forces conflicted between the modern dilemma imposed by social norms of right and wrong. The story was very real, given the hero and heroine were based on actual people I know, and the struggle was close to what often runs through my spirit. The novel did quite well in that it received six 5 star reviews and the realism of the story and characters was cited very positively by all reviewers, except one. She was horrified. Her contention was that it reflected too positively on our military especially given that they were fighting a war and killing people in Iraq (I kid you not). Now, in creating this story, I recognized the tightrope dealing with the parts of the novel going against some of the more extreme elements of our society that do not respect the military the way I do. You see, for 25 years of my career I worked side by side with men and women that gave everything of themselves, including their lives, for the country they love. I knew that reflecting the truth, the way they really are, their lives, their sacrifice, might anger some but one has to be true to their own belief structure or how can you look in the mirror. In all my stories I do walk the PC tightrope, but sometimes I fall into the pit of telling it like it is, and I do hear about it, but I can live with that.

2. In my novel FORGOTTEN CHILDREN, one powerful scene near the end of the story focused on two characters dealing with their imperfect nature. The female had stayed with a player male even thought she knew his nature was not to commit, and the male exhibited a roaming personality (no, this one was not derived from me, I’ve been hook to the same woman all my life). Now, both these characters are real. I have a sweetheart of a female friend that “Sandra” was modeled after, and ‘Jim’ was a real life womanizer that I once knew. Just before this scene, Jim was offered a bitter taste of what his behavior was doing in terms of the women he used by none other than his best friend (wonder who that was). The reader learns there is a reason for his callus behavior; not an excuse but demons of his own that have blinded him to the pain he’s caused in others and himself. Jim has an epiphany about his live, what he’s become, and what he’s done to so many caring hearts. The scene is very powerful because his eyes are opened and he realizes Sandra is what he wants and, well you’ll have to read the story. Point is, although the book was received well by reviewers (gave me 5 stars) and readers, a couple readers did not relate to that particular scene. Their reasoning was they didn’t like a woman allowing herself to be used like that. Truth is, I struggled with that very issue when I wrote the book, but Sandra’s flaws and Jim’s blindness are real life and made the final surprise outcome extremely moving. I did walk the tightrope, but felt the realism was important to that scene and left it in the story.

Why would anyone selectively leap off the tightrope? Like I said, those elements are difficult to a writer in trying to achieve an acceptable balance for the reader. But sometimes you have to take a risk for your own sanity, say the hell with it, and jump one way or the other, and accept you may hear about it later. After all, you can’t please everyone all the time (g).

Michael Davis (Davisstories.com)
Author of the year, 2008

Book Trailer - Outlaw Trail by Stacey Coverstone

2009-12-09T00:01:00.001-05:00

It Can't be Defined by Angelica Hart & Zi

2009-12-08T14:15:00.000-05:00

IT CAN'T BE DEFINED

To write as partners, the collusion and collision of ideals and ideas must be for the most part non-violent. What does that mean? If the work is expected to be harmonious, the two authors at some level must philosophically agree, bickering for ego's sake can't succeed. To know us is to understand that we are not quite disagreeable with each other since we have agreed to agree, holding the work more important than our own point of views, which can often differ greatly, but... but... but... on the following topic we empathically concur.

One of the most paramount issues in the genre in which we write is that of defining love.

We have both agreed it is one of those exceedingly interesting things where it's a case of, you can't define it, though when you see it, you know it. It is as intangible as air but you need it to breathe life into your heart and soul. Even the most angry, most apathetic, most egregious need love in their world, no matter how much they might deny it. People respond to love, grow and blossom, yes, just like flowers as corny as that may sound. Angelica empathically insists that love is different for every person. Zi has taken a position that he is not certain that to be the truth but floating within the metaphysical properties of love are common denominators that can be defined.

Just today we have worked on the following paragraph which is a part of a short we have been developing. We'd like to share it with you.

"The last of her tea slipped past her lips, cooling the parch that settled in her throat, a parch that lingered in her heart as she searched the faces that passed, searched for him, and when the day drew on, she also watched the roll of each wave chasing the next unfolding in white puffs of foam then dissolving, and then again… it unfolding and dissolving… it unfolding and dissolving… it unfolding and dissolving…that sequence never ending… never changing… it was like love, she thought, a lover chasing a lover... minute after minute… hour after hour… day after day… year after year… they dissolving as if lost in one time, their time. She knew this was the way of love, with its wash and roll, soft and subtle, relenting toward an abstract objective though for each it was sharp and precise. But for those who have known love it was abstractly keen. This universally oxymoronic ideal of love first called Adam to Eve and every man since, never waning over all time."

One of the first manuscripts we did together resulted in the following piece of poetry. The reason we are sharing it is it shows the harmony necessary to at minimum respectfully deal with the concept of love. We both admit openly we don't have the answers, but we feel the questions.

ELEUTHEROMANIA vs. MONOPHOBIA
(Excessive zeal for freedom vs. fear of being one)

I’ve cried a million tears for you
And I don’t know why.
You don’t care; you don’t share one
Feeling for me.

I’ve cried a million tears for you.
I love you
And, I could never give a single
Reason why.

As my heart beats as one
Walking life’s paths, hand in none.
I wince, that hurt of silent loneliness
I cry help, I cry… for lovingness.

I’ve cried a million tears for you.
I felt a millions fears.
Chances are you have not thought of
My name, why?

Burning deep inside is a need to be two.
So passionately that time’s blindness would ensue.
Yet, my heart beats as one
Walking life’s paths, hand in none.

I’ve cried a million tears for you.
Wet my pillow case
Night after bitterly lonely night
For you, why?

I’ve cried a million tears for you.
And you have not let one dampen your cheek
I pity your world… your compassion.
I cry… millions... why?

Please free me… from my next tear.
Release your grip upon my heart.
I want the glory of smiles unbridled.
Please free me… from my next fear.

On a daily basis we honor and respect the give and take, pull and draw of that one universally fundamental emotion. Love. It would be the most grievous disservice to any connoisseur of our genre. This we have pledged to each other. Now, outside of the issues of love we have few boundaries. So, grandmothers might piece their navels and uncles might step in dog do-do and the occasional rat might find its way into one's cereal box, but we hope you can trust that our point of view about love is that we believe it is grand and glorious. And, yes, according to Angelica different for every individual

_____

We'd love to hear from anyone interested in what we do. Anyone who writes us and leaves an s-mail address, we will send you a gift and add you to any future mailings.

Angelica Hart and Zi
KILLER DOLLS ~ September 2009
SNAKE DANCE ~ February 2010
CHASING GRAVITAS ~ July 2010
angelicahartandzi@yahoo.com
angelicahartandzi.com

KILLER DOLLS can be purchased at
Champagne Books
http://www.champagnebooks.com/

Excerpt: The Chat Pack by Dr. Kris Condi

2009-12-07T00:01:00.001-05:00

Excerpt:

“Give it to me!” A man’s voice shouted.

Corin screamed. She grabbed hold of the ledge so not to fall out the window. As he moved forward, the floor creaked and a chunk of boards fell to the second floor. He was too heavy to come to her, and she could never jump three flights to safety out a window. He got on his hands and knees and crawled to the radiator handle. He grunted then twisted with much strength until the hiss of pumping water and forced heat echoed. She edged into a corner on the ledge to avoid being burned. His face grew fierce as she tucked the safe inside her backpack.

“You can’t stay there forever,” he stated. She said nothing.

He grabbed a pool stick and poked at her face. She grabbed it, but he was stronger and yanked her to the floorboards. She quickly grabbed hold of the leather cushions and hoisted herself back on the ledge. The more he prodded, the more the floor cracked and separated. Seemingly searching for an object, he picked up a chunk of wood and threw it at her. She dodged the wood, but it hit her knapsack. Corin’s backpack sprawled on the floor, and the cookies fell to pieces. Pigeons flew past him; the sudden flight of the blackbird made him lose his balance. Or was he crippled like her aunt? He swore and called her a little bitch who was going to get hers, whatever that meant.

Tattle & Wrye - December 2009

2009-12-06T01:35:00.000-05:00

FROM THE DESK OF

DONA PENZA TATTLE, ESQ.

AND

ASSOCIATE WRYE BALDERDASH

Greetings,

"T'was the night before the Christmas break, when on top of a ladder, Wrye could be found stirring, wobbling, and tottering, making Tattle sadder. The extra large stockings were not to be hung off the desk, she declared, but by the chimney, where ole Saint Nick would find them securely there. Wrye having visions of characters all snug in a wonderful book, conceded and pointed to the sugar plum stories perched in a nearby nook. With Tattle in her candy cane striped 'kerchief, and Wrye in his fur lined cap, they had just settled their brains for a Love of Literature Leap with a zap."

As Tattle recites her version of a famous poem, hands primly cupped within each other, a halo upon her head and angel wings fluttering from behind, Wrye looks at her over the rim of half glasses that resemble those worn by Santa. "You're right, let's leap. You're an angel?"

"A kind angel with an angelic heart." She not to Wrye but to the world in general. "The wings are better to leap with m'Claus."

"Aye, call me Pseudo-Clause. The Christmas Critiquer," he said, doing the moon-walk he leaps backwards, calling, "Oh... Oh... Oh!"

Tattle lands on a pair of knitting needles, pointed upward and yelps, Wrye winces and says, "That’s gotta hurt. Christmas tree!" Wrye notices her confusion and clarifies, "Christmas trees are like bad knitters, they both drop their needles."

"What a pain in the.... oops! Jolly ole Saint Obvious," she returns, first removing the knitting appliance, and then taking in the milieu of the Kingsley Nursing Home, within the pages of JULIE EBERHART PAINTER'S MORTAL COIL, a romantic comedy. "Poor dears," she says, checking out the worried expressions on the aged. "There's been two murders and Detective Bill Watts has been called in to investigate what has been dubbed the Ponytail Perp." She rose, flitted her wings, lifted one leg creating a figure four, and spins as if on a music box.

"I hear,” said Nipper to the Gramophone, obscure RCA reference intended, he finds himself also investigating and intrrrigueeeed by Ellen Lange, most would, the lovely lady who runs the home. One thing led to the next, which led to the next, which, welll, ends up with him falling in love, yup, tries to date her, commmplllicaations, happy to even have her ten-year-old daughter, Patti, along."

Tattle accompanies Wrye's long oratory with background music provided by her Ozark Jaw Harp. Why? Angels need a harp.

The sound reminds him of On Top of Ole Smokey and in Pseudo-Clause persona, he reacts, "Ho... Ho... Ho... down?"

Ignoring the query, she continues, "Ah, but Ellen becomes overprotective and decides there is no place in her wee family for the once divorced Bill. Was that fair? Meanwhile, Patti goes missing, ouch, which forces Ellen to turn to Bill. Was it fate? Was it destiny? Was it Memorex?"

Wrye fingers his faux beard, loosening part of it and the mustache droops as if a faulty fake eyelash, flopping as he speaks. "Look there, read... Ah ha! The lost child incident turns out to be nada, alright!" The two high five, she misses and smacks the top of his head. Undaunted he adds, "But our boy Bill has the hero glow, as do I most days, and precious Patti ends up liking him, sweeeetnesss, starts seeing him as a father-figure. I feel tears on the horizon..."

Tattle checks out her cherry tart red lipstick in a shiny Christmas ball. "And Ellen's wintery attitude melts, she starts to like Bill, too. Only..."

"I knnnoooow. The murderer is still out there. Eeeeh!"

"And Ellen is abducted." Tattle using her mouth harp tries to da da da daaaaa to make it sound dangerous.

"More... more... more..."

"Nope... leap time, m' PC Père Noel."

"Watch out for the..." Tattle observes Wrye as he skids directly into a Scotch Pine tree blazing with Christmas lights. "Oh, I see you found it."

"It's male."

"Don't go there."

"Balls!" He dusts pine needles off his red and white fur trimmed jacket, twitches his nose as if magic is about to happen and declares, "It's beginning to feel a lot like Christmas, and here we are right in the middle of ALL I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS by CINDY K. GREEN, a romantic contemporary Christmas story."

"Yes, yes, and there is Kathryn Graham, a writer at Redburn Weekly who has been assigned, along with the exuberant and jovial Nick Pringle, to work a story about the toy drive for the local orphanage. Do you see that Mister Woof Woof?"

"Dog?" His face slapped with righteous indignation.

"Yes, Santa Paws."

"And Shaggy Dog humor lives in you." He bows and wows. "I remember now, Nick's enthusiasm for Christmas annoys Kathryn, ho ho ho ho, while Kathryn's hatred for the beloved holiday baffles Nick."

"I see connnflicccct,' she says as she begins to juggle three Christmas balls.

"You emasculated my tree."

She giggles, "And where do snowmen go to dance?" She waits, then answers, "Snow Balls."

"Speaking of which, I see snow!" Wrye announces and scoops up enough of the white fluff to form a snowball. Throws it to her and now she is juggling four. "And Nick begins a campaign to win Kathryn over. Will he? Should he? Ho ho ho. I'm not talking just about her attitude toward the noel event. And in the Christmas alphabet there is no L."

Tattle's brow lifts in that you-wouldn't-dare gesture as Wrye begins to wind up like a major league pitcher with a second snowball. "Nick has been falling in love with the woman since they first met. Is this knotty or nice? Nick decides to become Kathryn's Secret Santa, how sweet, having gifts delivered daily, and lo and behold, Kathryn's attitude begins to slowly change. Success?" She puts her juggling to rest. "Onnnly, she seems to be falling for the Secret Santa, Cyrano de Bergerac moment, and distancing herself from Nick, irony slaps, leaving Nick jealous of himself... Connnfuuusing."

"Ut oh, said the gardener, trouble is a Hoe-Hoe-Hoe-ing about."

Tattles evades the pun. "Even a shared kiss between her and Nick, lovey dovey, doesn't seem to turn her away from the ever so perfect Secret Santa. Dag! I'm rootin' for Nick. Now, he believes he'll never be anything more than a friend, incoming... duck... sadness invasion, and even at that, a distant friend. Tissue alert! Meanwhile, da da da daaaaa, Nina not Pina or Santa Maria Phillips seems ever so interested in Nick. Cat fight? And Nick considers that it might be time to accept reality. Heartbreak! Yet can he? Will Kathryn's heart ever open to Christmas? And will she find out the truth about her own feelings toward Nick too late?"

Smacks Wrye's hand as he attempts to read ahead. "Tsk... tsk... we'll read later, m'Saint Nick."

The duo land softly in the midst of NOELLA'S GIFT by DONICA COVEY and the mystical wonder of a romantic contemporary Christmas story. "It is so cozy here," announces Tattle as she takes in the homey warmth of Holly Harper's home."

Wrye musing, as if burning his candle at both ends, elucidates, "Which burns longer, a red candle or a green?"

"Neither! Candles always burn shorter." Tattle does the finale tap dance that one might see in a Vaudeville act. "But where are Holly Harper's Christmas decorations?"

"Hates Christmas," informs Wrye yet ever the optimist rummages about for sugar cookies. "However, once she finds a raggedly dressed Noella on her doorstep, a little lost six-year-old girl, her feelings slowly begin to change. Readers will be on a collision course for planet Warm Your Cockles."

"Oh, who is that yummy man?" Tattle does that hip waddle that suggests more naughty than nice, tilting her now tarnished halo.

"A police detective, Jaxon Cole. Look out, Tattle, mood grenade. He found out that Noella's parents had died, but neither he nor Holly seem to get anything more out of the child, only a growing sense of sadness. Yes, I'm crying, and yes, I am PC."

"Holly decides to keep the girl at least through the holidays, good for her, while they try to figure things out. In the meantime, a freak snowstorm traps the three of them in Holly's home, of course it does, why not? And that's when, ironically, the thawing begins. He he ho ho ha ha. The bitter detective and the woeful Holly see things through the child's eyes, yet as Jaxon grows close to Holly, she suddenly turns as frosty as the weather."

"An old snowman is... what? Waaattter. Will this hot hunk and frigid female co-exist without getting wet? Will they ever find the Christmas spirit? Hope so. I like them! Will they ever know the love Noella seems so determined to spark within each of them for the other? YIT (Yenta in training). And will Noella ever receive the gift of her heart?" Tattle dabbles at her eyes. This is sooo... sooo..."

Wrye pats her shoulder. "There... there... Hot chocolate time, I feel your angelica heart."

Back in their office, the two merrily exchange their Christmas gifts. Can you guess what? Well, Champagne Books, of course.

Hope you enjoyed! Next month we'll be warming up to the characters from T. M. HUNTER'S HEROES DIE YOUNG, JANE TOOMB'S NIGHTINGALE MAN and LOVE THY NEIGHBOR by PATRICIA BATES.

Merry Christmas to all and to all a good holiday,

Dona Penza Rutabaga Tattle, Esq.

and Associate Wrye Balderdash

of Blather City, Wannachat

Created and written by

Angelica Hart and Zi

KILLER DOLLS ~ September 2009

SNAKE DANCE ~ February 2010

CHASING GRAVITAS (working title) ~ July 2010

Champagne Books

angelicahartandzi.com

Book Trailer - Delaney's Crossing by Stacey Coverstone

2009-12-04T00:01:00.003-05:00

Book Trailer - Flaherty's Crossing by Kaylin McFarren

2009-12-03T00:01:00.000-05:00

The Essence of a Hero by Angelica Hart & Zi

2009-12-02T00:01:00.002-05:00

THE ESSENCE OF A HERO

The hero of a story must reach into the reader's heart and soul, making he/her believe in that character's reality, must make them want to cheer them on, must ache when they hurt, cringe when they are embarrassed, fear when they are threatened, and cry if they die. But what makes a hero? How do we as writer's reach that conclusion? How do we perceive the essence that will bring about the desired results and have a man say, oh yeah, I'd following him and face the hordes of hell, or a woman yearn to be safe in his arms. We obsess over finding just the right blend of traits and we believe we have touched on one in particular. Russell Crowe… Best Actor. Works for me. Gladiator… Best Film… a study in heroes. Their hero-dom arose from their leadership qualities.

I’d like to exam Russell Crowe in Gladiator and specifically only the first five minutes of the movie. In my view it was these five minutes that set this movie and this character out to be something special. He breathed humanity into the armor clad Maximus. A time when his struggle through life was far from what we’d think humane yet he was strong as well as compassionate.

I saw a portrait of passion coupled with honor. Maximus was magnanimous. Your first vision of him shows an unkempt bearded clear-eyed man. Set poised in the snow flurries of a winter day focused on the moment. Unaffected by the climate. His proud walk amidst his troops reflected an honest connection. His version of high fives, fist to fist, depicted a sharing of strength and a man willing to touch his charges. A man not at arms length but approachable. It was obvious he stood shoulder to shoulder with them during battles. It was the image of a man’s man. A man who’d take the back of his brother-in-arms. Additionally, qualities of one whom was a leader. Not an order giver… but a man in the trenches and showing the way.

He described his army as “…lean and hungry.” Simplistic yet speaks volumes. Their physical shape. Fat free… Un-contented. Focused on a goal. Everything an athlete wishes to be prior to any contest. Everything any businessperson wishes to be prior to any deal. These three words connected to the deep-seated competitor found in most.

When Maximus’ second in command reacted to the Horde’s refusal to surrender with, “They don’t know when they are conquered,” Maximus stoically replied, “Would you… would I?” He honored his foe… his second in command… and himself with respecting the never quit… never give in… never say die attitude. Tenacity toward attaining a goal is a powerful belief, which is held high in the view of most.

His personal preparation for the moment of truth, the battle, was that he stooped, took dirt into his hands and rubs them with it. This unpretentious moment of focus showed a simple man. The dirt absorbing the sweat of his hands, hands that would be his tools in the fight. An act of readiness, a point of demarcation, the line between General and Warrior was seen in this private moment.

His look at his dog, a powerful dog, which showed a man who was complex enough to have such a loyal cur. Historically, an image of a dog as a man’s friend helps show a character deep, confident and human.

Maximus’ salutation to his second in command was “Strength and honor.” Pure genius. Strength…force… power… might… energy… intensity… vigor… brawn… virility. Honor…integrity… honesty… morality… regard… dignity… rectitude. A balance between power and integrity.

Maximus’ final order was “At my signal… unleash Hell!” If you never fought you might not understand. If we fight we must fight to win. I believe this. If we choose to do something, do it as well as we can. Half-fast is half-assed. I respect the pureness of this attitude because it respects the mission of the moment.

A leader emerged before my eyes. Maximus joined his cavalry, the force with which he would be riding into battle. It was at this point in time he showed himself to be a man of vision. Explore the quote, “Imagine where you will be and it will be so…” Visionaries can make great leaders. Their visions capture their followers. But a visionary without substance, i.e., an idea man, does not a leader make. A vision coupled with a willingness to do what’s imagined is the purest form of leadership.

The five minutes ends with this statement by Maximus, “What we do in life echoes in eternity.” The essence of the dream/desire that we want to make a difference on time. We matter. Not just our time but all time. We want to be remembered. We want a legacy. We understand we’re fragile creatures whose fate in life is that we die. So between birth and death what we do must matter. If we can’t buy into to that then we question our purpose to exist at all. We sense our soul will have a life-after thought that is intangible but that tangible life-after is reflected in the monuments we build to ourselves, and these are usually in the forms of accomplishments, people that we have truly affected and our children.

Maximus rises out of these five minutes as a man’s man leader, an unpretentious visionary with a grasp of the magnitude of the moment, a man with an eye on the goal and a passion to do what is essential to achieve it. Powerful stuff.

This is a great man’s flick. However, this was not a chick flick but Maximus is also the personification of a woman's hero.

I share this because it helps define the rare qualities of a real man with character and strength and when we word picture heroes we have to start with an essence. I wrote this many years ago and maybe out-dated but the concept of hero is never.

So why share the aforementioned point of view? As caretakers of the genesis of the characters in our stories, we hold a responsibility to every reader to grabble with imagery and respect the iconic ideals, such as heroism.

In closing, we try to take these and similar traits into the embodiment of our heroes. Though they may be uniquely different in personality, they have that similar underlying core of values, strength, and determination. The sort of man that will cut himself fairly badly but will finish what he is doing before tending to that wound. The sort of man who a woman will feel safe with even when she feels quite capable of protecting herself. The sort of man who will climb into your world, and will stay a part of it, forever.

At least that is what we hope to bring to our heroes. If you read our stories, you'll have to let us know if you agree.

_____

We'd love to hear from anyone interested in what we do. Anyone who writes us and leaves an s-mail address, we will send you a gift and add you to any future mailings.

Angelica Hart and Zi
KILLER DOLLS ~ September 2009
SNAKE DANCE ~ February 2010
CHASING GRAVITAS ~ July 2010
angelicahartandzi@yahoo.com
angelicahartandzi.com

KILLER DOLLS can be purchased at
Champagne Books
http://www.champagnebooks.com/

Book Trailer - Noella's Gift by Donica Covey

2009-12-01T00:01:00.002-05:00

The hard ones - by Michael Davis

2009-11-30T00:01:00.002-05:00

I’ve read on many of the author forums of people seeking advice on how to overcome the inevitable condition know as writers block. I’m very fortunate in that, after six novels and three short stories, I have yet to encounter that roadblock. The stories seem to just float around in my head like fluttering butterflies.

Still, until I get the first three or four chapters under my belt, I’m becoming more and more resistant to lock myself away in the back room and bury my brain in the fictional world. That’s to be expected given how isolated authors become once they’re in the zone. There’s one area where the pressure required to force my big butt to stay glued to that chair is more than just simply twisting my own ear; its an all out war.

This battle between me wanting to get the story in my head down on paper and yet pushing away from the keyboard on selected scenes has happened on each novel I’ve written, but it was only after my third story that I realized why I was pushing back. You see, as a rule, I’m a gentle teddy bear, hard on the outside but mushy on the inside. Sure, I get anger and fight back verbally when some politically blind cranial vacuum tries to shove their lies and rhetoric down my throat, but in most of the difficult situations we encounter each day, for my size, I am very laid back. That characteristic of my personality goes along with the fact that I have great difficulty dealing with the suffering of others. Whether it be abuse, conditions of poverty, or physical pain; it truly screws up my mind to deal with such human suffering.

What’s my point? I’m sure that many people experience such difficulty. Problem is, as a writer of suspense, intrigue, and romance; human suffering is part of the draw that envelops the reader. We become entwined in what the character is going through and remain locked on every word till we can see how the world is made bright and sunny again. I confess, I’m a sucker for such stories. Yet as a writer, I hate dealing with the hard scenes where I have to “make” someone experience pain or emotional torment. Each time I come to those scenes, it is a confrontation with my own inner voices to force myself to sit down and do the scene.

After writing six novels, I recognize this weakness, and I accept it without frustration at myself for being such a wussy. Case in point, I can usually rough out a chapter every couple days. On a novel I just finished but have not yet submitted, I had to work piece meal on the story across three other novels I was writing. I just couldn’t bear to deal with the emotional suffering going on in the story. Then why not just change the scene? Doesn’t work that way, at least not for me. The story has a life of its own as the muse whispers in my ear. Take out a scene, and the whole story changes.

I’m currently at that stage in another story I’m working with my co author budette Candace Morehouse and I’m still struggling with chapter three. Why? You guessed it. Something really really bad happens in Chapter one and three and I just got over the stress of the first chapter. Now I have to go through it again. Geez. But I will get it done, I just have to take a deep breath, tie myself to the chair and DO it.

Till next time.

Michael Davis (Davisstories.com)

Author of the year, 2008

“The How To Look At A Woman Primer”

2009-11-27T00:01:00.001-05:00

“The How To Look At A Woman Primer”

I want to talk this week about our national pastime. No, we’re not gonna talk about baseball, cause that’s not our real national pastime. It’s certainly not the national pastime for women, and it’s not even the national pastime for men, if we‘re honest about it. If all of us men would come clean, the national pastime for us is, has been, and always will be looking at women. More specifically, looking at very attractive women.

We may as well just own up to it - we men would rather look at a nice looking woman than just about anything else. We’re biologically programmed that way. From the time the first hormones of puberty hit, we enjoy looking. And we continue enjoying it on up until we die. We can be young, old, married, single, divorced, employed, unemployed, white, black, red, yellow, tall, short, educated, or uneducated, and our one commonality is that we love looking at women. If any of you ladies out there doubt me on this, simply try the following - walk over to the man in your life, look indignantly at him, and sternly ask, “Fred, do you really like looking at that trashy looking Pamela Anderson in her skimpy bathing suits?” Then, just sit back and watch his reaction - you’ll see and hear more stammering than you would if you asked him to go out and buy certain feminine related products for you. Let’s face it, of course he wants to look at her, she’s a beautiful, trashy looking blonde, and if he didn’t want to look at her he’d be wanting to watch some Richard Simmons‘ exercise videos, and I don‘t need to say anymore about that.

So, now that we’re honest about men loving to look at hot women, we now need to discuss just how we actually do it. It’s not as easy as you’d think - first, you can’t just out and out gawk at a beautiful woman. If you’re with your wife, mother, or girlfriend when you do so, it can be pretty embarrassing. Maybe even potentially dangerous. Therefore, with that in mind, most of us men learn to look at women in ways that won’t get us into very much trouble. The following are our most widely utilized techniques:

1. The very simplest way to look at a nice looking woman without getting caught is to just look away from her, and then cut your eyes over to where she happens to be - it’s quite simple and effective. The only problems with it are that you can get some real powerful headaches if you cut your eyes over to the side for very lengthy periods of time, and, if you’re out walking when you’re cutting your eyes over, you can slip up and walk headfirst into something if you‘re not careful. I had a friend one time who actually walked right into soft drink vending machine while raptly gazing upon some feminine beauty. Talk about a cold, hard dose of reality!

2. Another way to look at a woman and not get caught is to create a diversion. It goes something like this - let’s say you and your partner are walking along in a Wal-Mart one day, and you happen to spot a real babe. Quickly, you look over towards the front of the store and say to your partner, “Wow, did you see that old woman just shove the door greeter?” Your partner will instantly walk over to check it out, and this is the time you use to scope out some newly minted gold for your eyeballs. Normally, this works out pretty well, but there’s hell to pay if your partner comes back a little too quickly and sees you checking out a hot woman. It’s easier trying to explain a loud burp at a funeral than that.

3. One novel technique is to walk up to a pretty woman and say, “Excuse me, I’m a Human Resources executive and I’ve been interviewing candidates for a self-defense instructor at our institute all afternoon. My eyes are just killing me. Would you mind if I just gaze upon your beauty for a few seconds?” Okay, honestly I’ve never heard of anyone trying this, but I just wish that one of you guys out there would take the initiative, try it, and let me know if it works out for you. I’d be most appreciative.

Well, I feel good that we’ve established what the American males’ true national pastime is. I’d love to write even more about it, but I’m already hard at work on my next expose article, where we’ll discuss why women think men are perfect before marriage, and bums afterwards...

Traveling to Your Novel’s Setting for Research, by Stacey Coverstone

2009-11-26T00:01:00.002-05:00

Traveling to Your Novel’s Setting for Research, by Stacey Coverstone

“Outlaw Trail” is the title of my historical western romance being released by Champagne Books in December. This novel takes place in 1882 New Mexico, and it tells the story of Josie Hart, who is half Tewa Indian, and Grey Paladin, a couple who become reluctant partners and travel two hundred miles of dangerous trail in search of a treasure that could change each of their lives.

Ask anyone who knows me and they’ll tell you I’m in love with the Land of Enchantment. Why? Because the skies are bigger and bluer, the sun is brighter, there’s something magical about the desert, and the mountains call me home. I go to New Mexico often, but not often enough. That’s why so many of my stories are set there. When I’m not able to physically be there, at least I can dream about my second home and re-imagine all the wonderful places I’ve seen and the people I’ve met. Setting a story in a real town or state gives an author a good reason to travel—in order to do research. That’s what I’m talking about today.

When I wrote “Outlaw Trail,” I referred to actual New Mexican towns and settings; places Josie and Grey visited or stopped at during their long journey. Some of these places I’d really visited in my own travels, some, I hadn’t. Once I’d mapped out Josie and Grey’s destination during the plotting stage of my story, I decided the Nambe waterfalls would be the spot where the climactic scene would take place. I’d never been to those particular falls before, but it seemed the perfect setting. Now, if I was going to be accurate in my description of this place, I had to see the waterfalls for myself, right? You bet. So, off I went, to Northern New Mexico on a research trip. I invited one of my best childhood friends, Linda, to meet me there, because she needed a vacation bad.

Linda flew in from Illinois and I came from Maryland, and we met up at the Albuquerque airport. One rental car later and we were off on our adventure! I can’t begin to describe all the fantastic sights and spectacular beauty we experienced. Today, I’m sharing Nambe Falls with you.

Nambe Pueblo is one of the Tewa Pueblos of the northern Rio Grande region. The name is a Spanish interpretation of the Tewa word “name”, which roughly translates as “earth roundness.” Prior to the arrival of Spanish explorers, Nambe Pueblo served as the primary cultural and religious center for the northern New Mexican pueblo communities.

Nambe Pueblo sits at the base of the rugged Sangre de Cristo Mountains, sixteen miles north of Santa Fe. It encompasses 19,000 acres of land surrounded by national forest. Its terrain is scenic and striking, featuring waterfalls, lakes and mountainous areas. The Nambe Falls are located above the Pueblo. A 15-minute walk along shaded cottonwood trails next to the river takes you to the base of Nambe Waterfalls. A longer hike up the side of a steep, rocky canyon affords you a magnificent birds-eye view of the stunning triple-decker falls. Standing at the peak, one can turn around and gaze out at the mountains and desert for as far as the eye can see. Guess which hike I chose to take?

My dear friend, Linda, is not a hiker. Nor is she an outdoors person. However, she was a real trooper—all in the sake of research. Despite her fear of death by stumbling and falling over the cliff to the jagged rocks below, she did climb that canyon with me all the way to the top. It took a while, but we made it.

Later, after she’d sat for a while, resting on a rock, she drank a bottle of water, wiped the sweat from her face, and mumbled a few choice words about the stupid cowboy hat she bought that was too big and kept sliding off her sweaty forehead. But, she agreed with me that the tricky hike up the canyon had been worth it.

As I gazed at the stunning three-tier falls that dropped through a cleft in the rock face to tumble into a reservoir below, I asked Linda if she’d ever seen anything so beautiful or felt so at peace. I’d experience that same feeling of peace several more times during our trip, because New Mexico is full of magical and spiritual moments that stay with you long after the vacation is over.

Josie and Grey battle outlaws, nature, and each other on their journey, but when they finally arrive at Nambe Falls, they discover riches more valuable than the original treasure they sought. That’s the way I look at research, especially when I can travel to the Land of Enchantment to conduct it.

Visit my website to read an excerpt of “Outlaw Trail,” coming December 1.
http://www.staceycoverstone.com

The hidden return - Michael Davis

2009-11-25T00:01:00.001-05:00

If you’re an author associated with the big eight (Random house, Penguin, etc) chances are writing is more of a monetary endeavor than the 99.8% of published writers (like myself and many on this blog) who are driven because of the mental return offered by the writing experience. There’s another side of the “return” equation I had not explicitly considered until last week when a reader asked me about several scenes in my first novel TAINTED HERO that moved him in an emotional or humorous fashion. He asked where those particular scenes came from and as I often do, I explained that many things I write about are derived from my personal memories, friends and family. As I went on and on and on, I began to realize that there was an element to becoming a published writer that I had never before considered, namely: sharing my world with others in a form that will extend beyond my time.

You see, the vignettes based on the pain my grandmother suffered for being native American, or the humor from when my cousin whacked her husband in the head with a frying pan for going to a strip joint, or the moment I watched my dad give his lunch money for a month to a single mom out on her luck; they're all real. In these and other elements of my personal life that have flowed into my stories, writing has provided an outlet to share my memories with others, and in so doing broaden the awareness of the wonderful people that mean so much to me.

I also now realize the tremendous opportunity I’ve had as an author to convey to my grand daughter the degree to which she is loved by her Pa Pa. In two of my novels, the activities and scenes blended into the story for the little girl in BLIND CONSENT and SHADOW OF GUILT were based on things my GD was doing at the time or activities she and I were sharing together. At my stage of life I’m clever enough to grasp that each passing year reduces my changes of seeing her into adulthood. What better way to let a young woman know how important she is, that she was loved so much to always be in the thoughts of her father and Pa Pa, and what a gift she is to bring comfort into the lives of so many.

I never considered these intangible benefits when I starting writing, but now when I think about it, what more could you what?

Michael Davis (Davisstories.com)
Author of the year, 2008

Excerpt - Killer Dolls by Angelica Hart & Zi

2009-11-24T00:01:00.002-05:00

EXCERPT THREE

Letti gasped at the unexpected behavior but she wasn't adverse to it. After all, he did something similar when he had kissed her so suddenly in her apartment. It felt like one of those fantasy moments, something right out of an old-fashioned bodice ripper. Yet, the moment wasn't quite right. There were those guys. Shouldn't they be a bit prudent, or did the possibility of danger turn Taut…well…taut.

She struggled but he refused to release her. He couldn't let her do anything that might spread the ricin. Gallagher had provided photos of ricin victims. He would not allow this to harm Letti. No one was to be hurt. Not again. Not on his watch. That imperative directed his next decisions.

His hold was an aphrodisiac, animalistic, driven, homogeneous with her want, placated only by submission to it, and her body began to respond. Shallow short breaths followed the intense heat smoldering in her groin, incinerating any resistance, and guaranteeing conflagration of raging flames of lust. The tight, pucker of her nipples signaled her growing arousal, and heaviness attached itself to her breasts, having that need to be touched. She surrendered to his authority, submitted, and urged him with her acquiesces to take more.

Once she stopped thrashing about, in the dark veil of silence still at her back, he grabbed her blouse, hand over one breast; she reacted to his touch as he balled the cloth in a huge hand, recalled the words, cut over-the-head garments away, and with one violent motion foreshadowing tremendous strength, tore it from her. In silence, he held it at arm’s length and disposed of it in an adjacent plastic-lined trash basket.

ABOUT AUTHORS

Their combined accomplishments include book publications in print and/or electronic versions of twenty-four titles, fifteen romance specific, ten manuscripts pending, EPPIE finalist for three books, Cecil Whig award, Hob-Nob Reader's Choice Award, written over 500 shorts with numerous published in both nationwide and small press magazines, articles published in various local, city and statewide newspapers, including four as a Guest Columnist in addition to trade articles. Both are members of various writing groups.

KILLER DOLLS IS AVAILABLE: Unaware that bio-terrorists are using her handcrafted dolls to attack the innocent, Letti Noel finds herself falling for Taut Johnson, an undercover FBI agent. Even as deceit is a growing barrier to their love, it's the stalking terrorists that are a threat to their lives.

We love to hear from anyone interested in what we do. Anyone who writes us and leaves an s-mail address, we will send you a gift and add you to any future mailings.

Angelica Hart and Zi
KILLER DOLLS ~ September 2009

SNAKE DANCE ~ February 2010
CHASING GRAVITAS ~ July 2010
angelicahartandzi@yahoo.com
angelicahartandzi.com
Champagne Books

KILLER DOLLS can be purchased at
Champagne Books
http://www.champagnebooks.com/

Rogue Dancer by K.M. Tolan

2009-11-23T00:01:00.000-05:00

ROGUE DANCER

Book Two in the BLADE DANCER series.

Available this December from Champagne Books

The last time Mikial's civilization turned on a savior, they were destroyed. Now Mikial is faced with repeating a disastrous history or defying it. Her people thought the humans had left for good. She believed otherwise. They were both wrong.

Not everyone is eager to embrace a leader with mixed blood who promises to reunite her divided race. To some, Mikial is a mistake that needs correcting. To others, she is the answer to a growing threat from beyond her world. Mikial must find a way to prove her legitimacy, even if it means resurrecting an ancient horror in lands laid to waste by a civil war she is desperate not to repeat. What she finds in the ruins of Min Saja will not be the salvation she expects.

Rogue Dancer continues the story of Mikial Haran, bringing with it all the traditions and strife of an alien people facing the challenges of first contact.

Creating a Productive Book Trailer by Suzannah Safi

2009-11-20T00:01:00.002-05:00

Creating a book trailer is one way to promote a book to readers. This type of promotion can make a sale, or hurt it.

When making the trailer, it’s very important to keep in mind a book trailer is like any marketing strategy, it should be carefully planned. The artistic skills and marketing talent are the foundation of creating a successful video that will present your book in a fascinating style.

Few points you should consider as you create your trailer:

While I create book trailers, it is important to make the trailer short, not more than two minutes, so the trailer won’t bore the viewers.

Words used are so crucial to the success of your video; it shouldn’t be more than one short sentence per frame, to be able to read it comfortably. I work with authors to come up with tweaked sentences or words to convey the right amount of information, enough to capture the reader’s interest.

How you construct your video is essential when you are marketing your book. If your video isn’t fascinating enough, it can hurt you more than help you sell your story.

The use of suitable video effects/pictures is essential part in making your trailer more professional, it’s not how many effects/pictures you use, but what and how you use these effects/pictures.

The trailer should give a different peek into the story, and compliment the blurb, not repeat it. One of the mistakes I see, in my opinion of course, is that some authors use the trailer as a blurb, and the mistake in using a blurb in the trailer is that you are giving the readers one chance in liking what they are watching, and if they didn’t find it intriguing, you lost them. From your trailer readers need to get to the blurb to learn more, then to your story to know the answers.

Using the trailer as stage one, and the blurb as stage two that’s two chances the reader may comeback and buy your book, which is the final stage you want the readers to reach. Just like a book cover, some readers if they were not attracted to it, they leave the book, some go to the blurb, and from there they will buy the book or not.

Same works for the book trailer, you must attract readers enough to get them to your story, and if the book trailer failed to attract readers, and wasn’t up to their standers, then you lost the sell.

Book trailers and book covers fascinate me, and graphic design always drew my attention. And as an artist, I started one day and never stopped. To me, creating Book Covers and Trailers is an art, a passion. I created Book Trailer Design in 2009. Please visit wwww.design.suzannahsafi.com and check the book trailers, I hope you enjoy your visit.

I always welcome any comments, suggestions, or questions; please don’t hesitate to contact me.