wodke-hawkinsons-blog

NEW RELEASE Sullivan's War: Book III by Michael K. Rose

Fri, 18 May 2012 03:29:25 +0100

PJ and I are honored to bring you news on the most recent release by talented author, Michael K. Rose. This should have sci-fi fans everywhere celebrating! I've read the series, and highly recommend it to any discriminating reader, especially those who love tales full of suspense, intrigue, and hard-core action in a future setting. Michael has the skill to pull you in from the very first page. ~Karen

New Release: Sullivan’s War: Book III - Edaline’s Dawn

With the release of All Good Men Serve the Devil, the first book of the series Sullivan’s War, Michael K. Rose began science fiction readers on an adventure that would span the galaxy as Rick Sullivan, Frank Allen and Kate Alexander came up against ruthless gang leaders, assassins, bounty hunters and highly-trained soldiers from Edaline, Sullivan’s home planet.

Now, with Book III - Edaline’s Dawn, all that Rick Sullivan has worked for comes to a head. In this action-packed finale to the series, Sullivan finally returns to Edaline to overthrow the planet's oppressive regime. Will he be able to help organize a new uprising against the government? How do the mysterious hyperspace entities figure into Sullivan’s future? And what will be the fate of Frank Allen?

Find out in Sullivan's War: Book III - Edaline's Dawn!

Praise for the series:

"Gritty, hardcore sci-fi with a fascinating twist, guaranteed to please!"
"A sci-fi thriller laced with action and political undertones. A Must Read!"
"Mr. Rose knocks another one out of the galaxy…."
"The writing style is engaging and creative…."
"…this thrill-a-minute ride will keep you glued to your seat until the very end."

For more information please visit: http://www.michaelkrose.com/sullivan-s-war

Michael K. Rose, author

Biography

Michael K. Rose is a writer of science fiction and literary fiction novels and short stories. His work has received rave 4- and 5-star reviews and the books in his Sullivan's War series are frequent inhabitants of Amazon’s “Bestsellers in Science Fiction Series” list.

Writing is not Michael’s only passion. He’s an avid traveler and has visited over two dozen countries on four continents. He also loves classical music and has season tickets to both the symphony and the opera. He can be reached at myriad_spheres@yahoo.com.

Links:
Website:
http://www.michaelkrose.com
Blog:
http://myriadspheres.blogspot.com/
Twitter:
http://twitter.com/#!/michaelkrose
Facebook:
http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100000670152582
Amazon Author Page:
http://www.amazon.com/Michael-K.-Rose/e/B0062EIPN2/
Goodreads Author Page:
http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5323090.Michael_K_Rose

My Divorce From (and Gradual Reconciliation With) Music

Sun, 13 May 2012 18:46:42 +0100

Some time ago, I divorced music. It might be hard for my friends and family to understand this, especially in light of the fact that I used to play, write, and sing music. Music is such an integral part of life; it's woven into our days and our memories. And there was the problem. Music, like the sense of smell, has the power to transport us back in time to a particular moment and enable us to re-experience not just the memory of the time, but also the associated feelings. Music is very powerful. It can inspire imagination, fill the soul, stir anger, and even break a heart.

A few years ago, my brother died. After the funeral, I found that songs of almost any type no longer soothed me. In fact, music felt like a rough hand chafing the raw nerve of my grief, especially the songs played at the memorial service. Music is inextricably tied to my memories, to my past. And in my past, my brother was still alive. Therefore, all songs up to the point of my loss reminded me of a time when my brother was still with us, even if they did not directly remind me of my brother. No music was comforting to me at that time; all of it laid bare emotions that were just roiling under the surface.

Then, my cousin died. He was my biggest fan. He had always loved music and my singing in particular, so when the family asked me to sing at his funeral, I could not refuse. But, it was one of the hardest things I've ever done. I almost didn't make it through the song, which happened to be Vince Gill's "Go Rest High on That Mountain", a heart-wrenching song even without the emotional association to my family's loss. Music can really hurt. The chasm between music and me widened.

If the truth be told, there was already some acrimony developing between music and me even before the deaths of my brother and my cousin. I found that certain songs reminded me too strongly of the mistakes of a misspent youth, and therefore triggered remorse. I also began to recognize that music had figured strongly in some of my worst decisions in life because I allowed it to manipulate me emotionally and warp my judgment. Music is seductive, insinuating its persuasive powers into our decisions, mindsets, and impulses.

Then there was the way repetition began to insidiously rob me of good recollections as well. I discovered with the proliferation of oldies radio stations, some of my most precious memories were being diluted. Here's how it works: if you don't listen to a particular song very often and then hear it out of the blue, it can take you back to a moment in time, almost like being there again. However, if you listen too often, the song can lose its potency as you become desensitized, and current events become linked with that song, replacing or minimizing older mental and emotional associations. So I had already become sparing with older songs, realizing that overuse of them might water down their impact.

And, I had already stopped playing and singing. It had nothing to do with my brother. I simply felt as if that chapter of my life was done and I moved on from it. Though I had enjoyed it immensely, my interests changed. I don't even remember the last time I took my violin out of its case. It was not with regret that I drifted away from performing, but with a feeling of accomplishment. I had wanted to do it, had done it for years, and was now finished with it. It took days of intense practice to convince my voice it needed to sing again so I could honor my cousin with a song at his service. I was so rusty.

After the loss of my brother, I wanted to hear absolutely no music. None. Of course, it cannot be avoided entirely. I couldn't in all fairness expect my family or friends to stop listening to music just because it was difficult for me to bear. When they listened to music, for me it was like an ex showing up at a social function. You have to put up with him, but you don't have to fully engage. So, I managed to keep music out of my life to a great extent, even when its presence was thrust upon me by others. It's a challenge to avoid music; it's in movies, television shows, commercials, etc., so I created an emotional distance. I heard without listening.

When writing our novel Tangerine, I wanted to make the future a place devoid of music. My co-author was appalled and nixed this element from the plot immediately. "I can't even imagine life without music," she said. So, we compromised and created a future where "real music" existed only on rogue planets and wild outposts, a future where most music was computerized and strictly purpose-driven, never for pure enjoyment. She went along with that idea, as long as we put old music into the story somewhere in some fashion. The point is, I was so divorced from music that it was easy for me to envision a future without it. PJ, however, couldn't even conceive of the idea.

After some time had passed, I found that I could gradually reintroduce music to my life. This was good for my writing because music is highly inspirational. But I had to be careful. Songs written after the death of my brother were fine. Unless the content was overtly emotional, I could listen to unfamiliar music without too much angst. I found I could tolerate and even enjoy some new-age music, especially the very relaxing sort or the celestial soaring-the-sky type. Generic music was also acceptable, for instance, certain types of jazz (which I rarely listened to before), hook-less instrumentals that flowed over me like soothing water, 1950's detective music, space music, silly music, scary music.

Now that several years have passed, I can even bear some of the older songs. There are certain songs I may never listen to again; it's too soon to tell. I would mention them by title, but I don't want to think about them.

I am limited in many ways. Mountain music, which I love, is still off limits because of its strong connection to family memories. Opera has always been off limits because of my distaste for it. Vocals with exaggerated choral-type vibrato are too irritating. Loud, abrasive music is unappealing. Even before my divorce from music, I had begun to veer away from music that assaults my senses, aggravates my peace of mind, or shocks and disturbs me. After years of allowing myself to be battered by fate, I finally latched onto the idea of controlling my environment, at least as much as possible, to be soothing and uplifting. It finally occurred to me that we have a lot more power than we realize, starting with the ability to select what we allow into our eyes, ears, hearts, and minds. They say "if it's too loud, then you're too old". Perhaps it's true. I may be too old for I don't want songs to scream at me, annoy me, toy with my emotions, or abuse me in any way.

So, music and I are reuniting, even if the reconciliation is somewhat narrow and strictly defined at this point. Music will be fine. It has never needed me; I needed it. Until one day when I began to question the relationship.

Perhaps it's avoidance on my part, a refusal to finish the grieving process. I'm okay with that. My grief may never be fully complete. It may remain unresolved for the rest of my life. I keep it in check, only allowing it out when I am able to contend with it. The rest of the time, it resides in some rarely visited corner of my mind. Some things in life hurt so bad, the only way to deal with them is to refuse to think about them.

My Almond: Superhero Armor by Brooklyn James

Fri, 11 May 2012 01:52:07 +0100

When asked by Karen to do another guest blog on overcoming the hurts sustained in my own experience with an abusive childhood, my response was, "I guess I never thought about it." The human spirit is truly amazing. It has the ability to triumph, not even realizing it is, in fact, triumphant.

My novel, The Boots My Mother Gave Me (An Amazon Breakthrough Novel Quarter Finalist) is a Dysfiction inspired by a true story, about a young girl coming of age while overcoming an abusive childhood.

For some reason, at an early age, I simply knew I wanted a different life than the one I was growing up in. Maybe it was an innate resilience, or naive faith. Whatever it was, it was enough to spur me forward, searching and reflecting for a better way. In the words of my lead female in the novel, Harley LeBeau, "Within each of us, there lies the innate ability to survive, triumph and overcome, rewriting the scripts of our own lives, having some power over our fate and the fate of generations to come. Nothing has to be just because that's the way it's always been.”

Scars from childhood cut especially deep. Who was it that said, “Childhood is what you spend the rest of your life trying to overcome.” I remember Sandra Bullock’s character, in Hope Floats, said that. I think her name was Birdee. Birdee Pruitt, I believe. Although, the saying has been around for some time.

In my book, I write about my amygdala…my “Almond,” as my ten-year old self referred to it. I learned about the amygdala in my fifth grade science class. The amygdala, being an almond-shaped group of nuclei, resided in my brain as part of my limbic system, pivotal in monitoring my emotional sensors. Turns out, my soul, my feelings, my emotions actually resided in my brain. I found that lecture life-changing and empowering.

I always thought my soul resided in my heart or my gut, as it always seemed to ache there when I was offended, hurt, or otherwise affected. From that lecture on, I employed my almond, envisioning it as some sort of superhero shield. You know, armor. Mind over matter, right?

Words have power. Things people say, especially people who are supposed to love you, can build you up, yet tear you down just as easily. My father was mostly verbally, mentally and emotionally abusive. The words from his mouth penetrated my most internal thoughts and emotions, defining my self worth. With one word, intonation, a look, my father could make me feel ten feet tall or lower than a slimy slug, dragging its disgusting body through the muck.

After I learned about my almond, I found myself on a road to emotional and psychological freedom. It empowered me to realize, the only power words have are the power we give them. Just because somebody says it, does not make it true. Just because someone says I am worthless, does not mean I am, in fact, worthless. Usually those hurtful words are only a reflection of how that person feels about himself, internally. It’s not a new concept: Reflection of ill feelings, spewed to an innocent party, in an attempt to make them feel as empty, angry or as damaged as the person saying them.

Let me clarify, I was not in denial of the things being said or the inappropriateness of those things. I allowed myself to hurt, when and as needed to release those bruised emotions from my being, so as not to damage my true potential with a build-up of the same anger and resentment. To hate through anger and resentment, hurts no one but the person holding on to all of that. Truth and forgiveness are two vital keys to clarity and freedom. But, most often, I simply refused to accept those hurtful words, choosing to release them, bouncing them off of my ever-shielding almond, freeing my soul from unnecessary grief.

I guess what I am trying to say, is that when it comes to matters of the heart, sometimes it’s most productive to consult the mind. Not as a means of escapism, but as a means of realism. We’ve all been assaulted by words at some point in our lives. And there is some truth to the thought that taking a punch would be easier than bearing a verbal assault, especially from someone who is supposed to protect and love you unconditionally, such as a parent. It hurts. But, as I prefaced earlier, just because someone says it does not make it true. And that is where the realism comes in…the consultation of the mind.

Sometimes my father would tell me I was worthless because I was a girl. Now, lets break that down. Lets get real. Yes, those words from his mouth hurt my heart, so to speak. But was it the truth? Was it fact? After consulting my brain…my almond, I could deduce that it was not fact. It was, in fact, a lie. The only way it could become the truth was if I allowed it to manifest into my own realism, accepting his words and then acting them out by being worthless. To give an abuser that kind of power is absurd. Truthfully, my father didn’t believe his sentiments to be true either. He said such because he hated his own mother for abusing him. I am truly sorry he was abused by his mother. I wish he could have had a different childhood. Lord knows it would have changed the direction of his life, and maybe he would have been the person I knew he could be. In the same breath, I was not willing to sacrifice the forward progression of my own life simply because he chose otherwise.

With the help of my almond, I was able to rectify that if I wanted to be worthy, I should do things that made me feel as such. Therefore, I challenged myself to be the best I could be, as a person and as a life achiever. Not necessarily to prove him wrong, but to prove myself right. At the end of the day, we know, in our heart of hearts, who we are at our core. And we know if we are proud to be that person staring back at us in the mirror. Believe in yourself, know yourself, define yourself…live your truth (not anyone else’s), and you will be proud of that reflection.

It’s a bit of a warrior mentality, I think, to rise above. There are certain Native American cultures who believe each person has two souls. One, being the body soul or shadow soul, resides in the heart. The other, being the free soul or real soul, resides in the brain. I like to think of it as such: The body soul is the one that takes all the hard knocks, the one that bears pain, joy, happiness, grief, anger, etc. Some Native American cultures believe the body soul is the one that remains with the human form after death…finally resting peacefully, quiet. The free soul is the one that is eternally free, hopefully logical and untouched by pain and despair. The one that truly defines us, as we see ourselves, free from others’ disparagements, to be ours and ours alone. This is the soul that certain Native American cultures believe lives on forever. If I have but one free soul that lives on forever, I want to define and cultivate that soul of my own merit, free (being the operative word) from others’ devices.

I hope you will enjoy a video excerpt from my novel, The Boots My Mother Gave Me. This reading is from Introduction: My Almond...Harley LeBeau's superhoero armor, so to speak in managing growing up in an abusive household.

This book is also an Original Music Soundtrack. "Brooklyn James' soundtrack to her novel, The Boots My Mother Gave Me, does more than give a clever feminist twist to the title. Her songs serve as chapters themselves, underlining James' deft ability as a storyteller and songwriter." -Margaret Moser, Austin Chronicle

To listen to free music clips from the soundtrack, visit: www.brooklyn-james.com OR

www.facebook.com/brooklynjamessinger

The Boots My Mother Gave Me and other Novels by Brooklyn James can be found on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/author/brooklynjames

Thank You Wodke Hawkinson for hosting me!

Brooklyn James

The Downside of Writing a Character You Despise

Mon, 07 May 2012 00:19:39 +0100

The upcoming novel by Wodke Hawkinson

Dear Readers,

For those of you who have been (im)patiently waiting for our next novel, the waiting time is nearing an end. We actually started the novel (???) before we wrote Betrayed, Betrayed Alternate-Ending, and Blue, but we were taking it in a different direction than where it is going today. Let me explain why this novel is taking us so very long to finish.

You see, there’s something about our main character that tends to make us want to ignore him. To put it bluntly, we hate him. He is just so unpredictable. He has more mood swings that Tarzan has vines. Is he good-looking? Yes! Is he sexy? Yes! Is he nice? When it avails him to be so.

So, what’s the problem? Why are we putting this novel off repeatedly? Well, the fact is, our character is absolutely despicable. We avoid him whenever possible.

When we finished Betrayed Alternate-Ending, Karen suggested working on a project we both are looking quite forward to writing: a fantasy. But I said, “Hold on. We have something else to do first; don’t you think we ought to pull out that nasty character we’ve set aside for so long?”

She reluctantly agreed, and we began working on our devilish character along with his poor innocent girlfriend. We move along fairly well and then lose days when we find ourselves, once again, ignoring the rascal.

Now, I am proud to announce that this character will soon be out there, available for everyone to learn to hate as much as we do, as we move into the final stages of getting the novel “???” ready for sale.

~PJ

P.S. See, we’re avoiding working on the novel right now by writing things for our blog instead. Sigh!

P.S.S. ??? is not really the name of our new novel. We are keeping that a secret just for the time being. (shhhhh.....)

Women and Thrillers, a Guest Post by Brooklyn James

Sat, 05 May 2012 03:12:46 +0100

After completing my first book, Vigilare, in the Vigilare trilogy, I thought I had written a detective mystery with a paranormal spin. Lo and behold, my surprise, when I kept reading reviews referring to my novel as a THRILLER. I had no idea I was that exciting!

Gabino Iglesias of the Austin Post said, “Vigilare walks the line between a thriller and a supernatural adventure while safely anchored in a scientific discourse around blood that James put together so well that it's reminiscent of a Douglas Preston or Michael Crichton novel. With action, romance, a strong female hero and a likeable group of characters, Vigilare reads like a good action movie.”

After reading his review, I call up my Editor, and I say, “How would you classify Vigilare?”

She says, “With all of that action, twist and turns, and a cliffhanger-ending, you have a Thriller on your hands, my dear.”

With further research, I found that I did in fact write the beginnings of a Thriller trilogy, as the novel has aspects of suspense, tension and excitement. Wikipedia says, “Thrillers heavily stimulate the viewer's moods giving them a high level of anticipation, ultra-heightened expectation, uncertainty, surprise, anxiety and/or terror.”

With renewed clarification of just exactly what my novel consisted of, my curiosity was piqued about the Thriller genre. After looking into it further, I found men have been writing and reading thrillers for years, with the name James Patterson dominating that list. The genre is relatively new as a mainstream medium for women, however there are many talented female thriller writers, such as Tami Hoag, who successfully made the jump from romance to thrillers. I always found Anne Rice be to quite thrilling, even before the term thriller became synonymous with books.

From what I gather, there is quite a gender discrepancy in the thriller genre, as far as what content the reading public will accept from a male versus a female writer. I get questions all the time about my “dark side.” In my interview with Gabino Iglesias of the Austin Post, he said, “Looking at James, a stunning belle with a perpetual smile on her face, it's hard to picture what would drive her to write a novel where sexual abuse and death are two crucial and ever-present elements.”

Vigilare is set in the town of Vanguard, where Detectives Gina DeLuca and Tony Gronkowski investigate a string of murders among the city’s most loathsome population, rapists and pedophiles, of which the Vigilare is most likely responsible. Vigilare, an Italian term, meaning to watch over, to look out, to protect—a play on vigilantism. I was inspired by comic books and movies, such as Batman and The Punisher. Pitting evil against good, and how good can turn bad, even with the most pure of intentions.

I am an upbeat, positive individual in my personal life. I like light, love, peace and tranquility. However, when I get into writer mode, most often I enjoy allowing my mind to take me to uncomfortable places. I find fear only propels us to a deeper understanding.

In my first novel, The Boots My Mother Gave Me (An Amazon Breakthrough Novel Quarter Finalist), I take on themes, such as domestic abuse, alcoholism and suicide. I certainly do not take on darker subject matter with the intent to justify it or glorify it. Shocking things happen to people everyday. As a writer, I feel difficult subject matter can be delivered candidly, yet with enough finesse and tact to allow readers to transport through it (maybe on the edge of their seats...or biting their fingernails) to the other side.

To start in the darkness, allows an author to steer her words toward the light, allowing characters to come to terms with tragic things in their past, growing, evolving and coming out of it. For me, dark, intense reads allow for pivotal character development. And as a reader, I enjoy works that are more than the words on the page. Books that make me think. Books that make me question my own morality, standards and outlook. Books that leave me wondering, What would I do? If given the same set of obstacles. As a reader, I don’t pay particular attention as to who is delivering the story…male or female.

“If there is something in which James excelled, it has to be the way she treated her subject matter. Scenes of attempted rape and physical violence abound, but they're always carefully and tactfully done. Instead of going for the cheap thrills and shock value, the author gently deconstructs a sad reality and unflinchingly exposes the psychological devastation that such an experience can bring.” –Austin Post

Even with such nice reviews, I still get comments from some of my female readers. “I didn’t like the language in certain scenes.” OR “Some of those scenes were hard to read.” Menacing, disturbed people are not going to talk like alter boys. And if those darker scenes didn’t make you a bit uncomfortable, then I didn’t do my job as a writer. I always ask them if they would be offended if they had read the same scene from a male writer. This usually causes them to tilt their head and think momentarily.

Maybe it’s the mixture of dark and light, hard and soft, trauma and romance, that makes it glaring. There are some questions as to whether a true thriller should include a romantic underbelly. For me, that is the redeeming quality. It’s like a female heroine. She can’t be concrete tough and without flaws, or the reader will not relate nor empathize. Right? I get no satisfaction out of reading a book that starts out dark, intense and at times horrifying, and ends the same way. As a reader, I have to have a resolution. Take me on a journey, even a harrowing one, but give me closure.

I’m currently reading Wodke Hawkinson’s Betrayed, a perfect example of a book that keeps me turning the pages. At times, it is brutal and harrowing, but as the story plays out, it is redeeming. A nice mixture of suspense and romance, all the while intricately developing their characters and the forces that drive them.

Essentially, I write from the female perspective, with intent to tell a good story, and empower those who have come through challenging circumstances. It is not by choice that darker subjects pique my attention and weave their way into my writing. It simply is what comes out of me. It has been a most interesting journey into the thriller genre. If you may be interested in a suspenseful journey, I hope you will take into consideration my Vigilare series.

Vigilare, book #1 in the trilogy can be found on Amazon, in both Kindle and print form @ http://www.amazon.com/Vigilare-ebook/dp/B005W4YEEC

Vigilare: Hell Hound, book #2 in the trilogy, NEW RELEASE May 1 on Kindle ebooks @ http://www.amazon.com/Vigilare-Hell-Hound-ebook/dp/B007Z0Z3MS

Print version to be available June 1.

Author Contact Info:
www.brooklyn-james.com
www.facebook.com/BrooklynJamesSinger
Twitter: @BrooklynJames7
http://brooklynjamesblog.blogspot.com/

Brooklyn James is an author/singer/songwriter inspired by life in the Live Music Capital of Austin, Texas. Her first novel, The Boots My Mother Gave Me, has an original music soundtrack and was chosen as a Quarter Finalist in the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Awards. Brooklyn holds an M.A. in Communication, and a B.S. in both Nursing and Animal Science. The Vigilare trilogy is an adaptation from a short narrative film. She is currently working on the last novel in the series, as well as another book and music soundtrack combination. All songs from the soundtracks are written/co-written and performed by the author. Listen free at www.brooklyn-james.com or www.facebook.com/BrooklynJamesSinger

Confessions of a Haunted Mind, A Guest Post By Hunter Shea

Mon, 30 Apr 2012 15:43:55 +0100

I’m going to tell you something I don’t often repeat.

I love nightmares.

Oh, a dream about swimming in a lagoon by a tropical island has its place, but rarely do those dreams stay with me. Like an orgasm, the moment is wonderful, yet fleeting.

All my life, I’ve had nightmares. I’m sure you’ve had your share, too. The difference with me is, at a very young age, I made peace with those nighttime visions of terror. As soon as I learned to embrace them, to dissect the patterns of horror that my own subconscious conjures, I became a different person.

Facing the monsters of my mind opened the doors of creativity. I’ve always loved a scary story or movie. Fear is just as exhilarating as joy. Our bodies react similarly when in the throes of each. Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m not exactly Pinhead extolling the pleasure of pain, but I do love that chill that races down my spine and the hyper-patter of my heart when I’m confronted with my deepest, darkest nightmares.

Writing is a way of bringing those sinister, lurking creatures into the light, and giving others that same jolt when they read my work. By the time I was ten, I was actively seeking out every horror movie and book I could get my hands on. I wanted to do what the men and women behind them did. So I looked forward to my nightmares and grabbed them by the neck, dragging them into my waking world, spilling them onto the blank pages before me.
And as I got older and immune to the horror of werewolves, vampires, monsters and fictional slashers prowling summer camps, I was left with one thing that still terrifies me. You see, I was brought up a Catholic, was even an altar boy for four years, and the things I was taught, the things I was told are certifiably real and itching to latch onto my soul, still trouble me when I turn out my light.

Just think of it. Aside from apocalyptic upheavals like floods, pestilence and the final ride of the horsemen, here are just a few concepts guaranteed to freeze your blood:

Eternal damnation in hell
Speaking of hell, how about the devil himself?
Demons
Possession
Exorcisms

The one thing they all have in common is a desire to consume your soul. These aren’t concepts spun by fiction writers for fun and profit. This is what potentially awaits us just beyond the veil of everyday life. When the day is done and your body can no longer carry on, your soul is all that’s left to you. Now imagine all of the malign forces drooling to snatch it.

I know this is why so much of what I write concerns, at its core, the tenuous hold we have on the essence that is us, and the darkness that waits for us beyond. There are endless theories about life and death and the soul and good and evil. What if all I learned in school and church is correct? What is my fate?

I hear the scrape of nails on the wood floor behind me. Everyone in the house is fast asleep. The only light is the soft glow of my laptop screen.

Please be the cat.

~Hunter Shea

Dear Readers: Hunter will gift a free e-copy of his book Evil Eternal to a random replier on this blog. So be sure to leave a comment! -Wodke Hawkinson

Contact info and links for Hunter Shea:
Author Page
Amazon
Barnes & Noble
Samhain

Facebook : http://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/Hunter-Shea/119863381423410

Twitter : www.twitter.com/huntershea1

Ten Things I've Learned About Life, a guest post by Toby Neal

Sat, 28 Apr 2012 21:13:33 +0100

We are fortunate to once again welcome talented author Toby Neal to our blog as a guest writer. Toby's book, Blood Orchids, is free April 28 and 29 on Amazon Kindle. Be sure and grab a copy of this fast-paced suspense. Now, we turn over the "podium" to Toby.

Toby Neal, Author

Ten Things I've Learned About Life by Toby Neal

· Niceness: it DOES matter. What kind of world would this be if we all gave into our nasty, jealous, greedy, murderous, slanderous impulses? So, when in doubt be NICE and even though not everyone will like you (that’s inevitable) the world will be a pleasanter place. If you must, get those evil impulses out by writing crime novels, like I do!

· Global Warming: if it wasn’t that, it’d be something else. Because of #3.

· Death and Taxes: yep, no matter how you wriggle and squirm, they’ll get you in the end.

· Gum: chew it often, it makes you smarter. Research shows it increases circulation to the brain.

· Dreams: they aren’t just too much pizza and beer. Your subconscious is trying to communicate! Listen to it or it’ll keep tossing you off that cliff (or having that bear chase you, etc)

· Chocolate: there is a God, and there’s proof he loves us because of chocolate. (I like creamy milk chocolate with almonds or hazelnuts, mmmmm)

· Orgasms: they are everyone’s right and you don’t always have to be granted them by a partner. Figure out how to get some and get some regularly. (Men don’t seem to have a problem with this)

· Old Age: unless Death & Taxes get you first, it’s going to happen to you. Planning for it and taking care of yourself physically are a good idea or you’ll end up somewhere you don’t want to live, not wanting to live.

· Money: You CAN have too much. But most of us will never have that problem, so don’t worry about it.

· Jobs: It’s REALLY important to figure out what you enjoy doing and can make a living at because you’ll spend more waking hours working than any other activity. It’s worth experimenting around until you find that thing—then any amount of time, money and education is worth it to get to the goal. I love what I do and it took 12 years of college (at the speed I went) to be able to do therapy with people, and it was well worth it.

About Toby Neal:
Toby Neal was raised on Kauai in Hawaii and makes the Islands home after living elsewhere for “stretches of exile” to pursue education. Toby enjoys outdoor activities including bodyboarding, scuba diving, photography and hiking as well as writing. A mental health therapist, she credits that career with adding depth to the characters in the Lei Crime Series.

Book Description: Blood Orchids
Hawaii is palm trees, black sand and blue water—but for policewoman Lei Texeira, there’s a dark side to paradise.

Lei has overcome a scarred past to make a life for herself as a cop in the sleepy Big Island town of Hilo. On a routine patrol she finds two murdered teenagers—one of whom she’d recently busted. With its echoes of her own past, the murdered girl’s harsh life and tragic death affect Lei deeply. She becomes obsessed—even as the killer is drawn to Lei's intensity, feeding off her vulnerabilities and toying with her sanity.

Despite her obsession with the case and fear that she's being stalked, Lei finds herself falling in love for the first time. Steaming volcanoes, black sand beaches and shrouded fern forests are the backdrop to Lei's quest for answers—and the stalker is closer than she can imagine, as threads of the past tangle in her future. Lei is determined to find the killer—but he knows where to find her first.

One of over 51 five star reviews on Amazon:

Hawaiian Background for a Fast Paced Mystery
“In this fast-paced mystery set in Hawaii, we follow police officer Lei Texeira as she and her partner stumble upon a grisly find--two murdered teenagers. Lei knew one of the girls and is determined to find her killer though her help is not wanted by the lead detective on the case, Stevens.
As the multi-layered story unfolds, Lei's past history becomes apparent, casing a psychological shadow which colors everything she does from dealing with a disturbing stalker to the unwanted attention of a neighbor. More murder victims turn up, and Lei becomes the target of a serial killer.
Blood Orchids is one of those books that once you start you won't be able to put it down. Author Toby Neal, a native of Hawaii, adds plenty of island atmosphere to this fast moving tale of murder and suspense and a healthy sprinkling of romance.” -Marilyn Meredith

Links:

Available on Amazon as ebook and print.

Available on Barnes and Noble, print only.

Toby Neal’s Blog

I Am A Recovering Asshole - A Guest Post by Nameless

Fri, 13 Apr 2012 18:31:27 +0100

MS Free Images

I was an asshole. I can admit that now. But I had to come very close to losing everything before I was able to face the truth about myself and my behavior. On the verge of losing my wife and children, I had to take a long hard look in the mirror. I didn't like what I saw.

To get a really accurate picture of myself, I had to wait until I was sober. If I looked at myself when I had been drinking or smoking, I got a distorted image. In a state of mild or even advanced inebriation, I tended to give myself a very generous (and highly unrealistic) review. So step one for me was to be sober when doing my self-evaluation.

What I saw was a spoiled, temperamental, immature, self-serving, grown-up brat who blustered around, snapped at people, forced my family to walk around on eggshells to keep from setting me off, and overreacted to trivial things. On the positive side, as a defense attorney I had gained a nonjudgmental attitude toward the mistakes people make in life and I was (and still am) very passionate and kindhearted. But not to the people who mean the most to me. To my loved ones, I was hard to please, critical, and moody. Why was this? I asked myself. The answer, I believe, is because it's much easier to be nonjudgmental toward people who have no direct impact on my life. What did I care what my clients did? They didn't do it in my house, so it didn't affect me. I was shocked when I realized I gave virtual strangers the benefit of the doubt, but wouldn't grant those dearest to me the same kindness. Shame settled on me like a heavy coat.

During my continuing recovery, I decided to assess possible reasons for my bad attitude. I am an only child and rarely had to share my toys or parental attention with other children when growing up. I also realized that during my whole life, I held others responsible for my own failings. Nothing was ever my fault. Could I blame my upbringing? After further soul-searching, I concluded that I could not. In fact, it was another of my negative characteristics that I always placed blame for my actions on someone or something else. I had to concede that I had good parents. I had to concede that I had a good childhood and a safe, comfortable childhood home. Therefore, I could not blame my upbringing for my personality. Besides that, I hadn't been under the authority of my parents for decades. It was a hard pill to swallow that my behavior and my choices were, in fact, my own. I knew I needed to start taking accountability for my own actions. If I had a bad day, that was no excuse to go home and rail at my wife or snap at my children. The cloak of shame grew heavier.

But didn't I always apologize when I got out of line? Yes, sure I did. But they were fake apologies. For instance: "I'm sorry if you were upset by something I did" or "I apologize if you overreacted to something I said". It was more difficult than you can imagine for someone like me to shift to genuine remorse, to say the words that needed to be said: "I'm so sorry I hurt you. I was wrong and I hope you'll forgive me". Those words left me vulnerable. Those words required me to admit fault, to take responsibility. To be honest, I still struggle with a direct apology. But I'm doing better. And I'm having to apologize less now; I've taken my recovery seriously.

At first, I wanted to blame alcohol for my bad behavior. But, it didn't take long for me to realize that wouldn't hold water. No one put the drinks in my hand. No one forced me to imbibe. And alcohol never created characteristics in me. It may have released some or uninhibited some, but it did not produce them. Nope, alcohol was no excuse.

When I carefully examined the triggers that used to set me off, I realized they were mostly minor incidents. It was my selfishness that blew them out of proportion. I didn't like being inconvenienced in any way and responded with ire disproportionate to situations. I was alienating my loved ones over ridiculously trivial matters, problems that are just a natural part of living. Tiny problems, when looked at with a larger view. Instead of flying off the handle over every little piece of bad news, I should have rallied around my family, assured them everything would be okay, and told them we'd work it out together. A flat tire? So what. A dented fender? Big deal, it's just a car. Are you okay? A bad grade? We've all had them. I'll help you with your homework. Those are the responses I wish I'd had, and the responses I am trying for now.

The old me. I shudder to recall: I flirted with women, but it was my wife's fault for not paying enough attention to me. I made my secretary cry, but it was her fault for being too sensitive. I hurt my son's feelings, but it was his fault for provoking me. I was rude to my client, but it was his fault for showing up without his paperwork. I fumed all evening in a black mood, but it was traffic's fault for slowing me down on my ride home from work. I embarrassed my daughter in front of her friends, but it was her fault for bringing them over without asking first. Etc., etc., etc. I was squandering my good life and beloved family.

Finally, it all came to a head, as it certainly had to. I remember it well. Suitcases by the front door, red-rimmed eyes in my wife's strained face, my children apprehensively hugging their favorite toys and shooting confused looks from me to their mother. It was then I imagined them all killed in an accident on the highway as they took their leave of me. Nothing would matter then, certainly not all the trivial things I'd been focused on. The icy hand of dread squeezed my heart and I fell to my knees. For perhaps the first time in my life, I issued a heartfelt and genuine apology. And lucky for me, my wife heard the sincerity.

At that moment, my recovery began. Are things perfect? No. But they are so much better. However, I have to be vigilant with myself. It's not easy to recover from being an asshole because so much of it centers around automatic responses, habitual behavior, and thoughtless actions. It helps to force myself to take a breath or two before I react or respond to any situation. Sometimes I slip up, but I quickly realize my mistake and take steps to rectify it immediately. When I'm tempted to stew or fume, I remind myself of that awful moment when the suitcases were sitting by the door and I imagined my family gone. That usually does the trick and I straighten right up.

I was finally able to remove that cloak of shame that had weighed me down. But it's still hanging in my mental closet. I don't want to ever have to put it back on.

~Nameless Recovering Jerk

P.S. I appreciate Karen & PJ allowing me to post anonymously on their blog. It is part of my self-directed recovery to share my experience with others. I also hope someone else might learn from my mistakes. I am currently researching and writing a book on anger management, the effects of moodiness on the family unit, and the process of self-healing.

A New Literary Genre? -A Guest Post by Rolando Garcia

Thu, 12 Apr 2012 00:03:46 +0100

I may have unknowingly created a new literary genre. But don’t take my word for it. Read on and let me know if you think that is the case.

It all started when I saw a picture of a “sun zebra.” Unfortunately I can’t tell you what a “sun zebra” is without spoiling the title story of my book. Then, after I saw this animal, a little girl named Nell wandered out of my mind and went to tell her dad she had found a “zebra.” Since the story takes place in a farm in the middle of Pennsylvania, the dad was skeptical, but he and his wife Rhonda repeatedly took Nell to “look for the zebra,” and they found it. However, as it turned out, the dad found much more.

After I wrote this story four more stories came out of my mind: a trek by a courageous insect, a twist on Poe’s famous poem “The Raven,” a Christmas tree with a special meaning, and a forgotten superhero making his triumphant return. So I gathered all the stories together and created an e-book entitled The Sun Zebra. The next step was to choose the genre of the book. It was then that I hit a roadblock.

The stories in my book deal with adult themes like death, growing old, and raising children. It is not a children’s book, but in many aspects it reminded me of a children’s book. So what was it? The thought crept into my mind that what I had written was a “children’s book for adults.” So I looked this up and I found books such as Adam Mansbach’s Go the **** to Sleep. This book was funny but it contained swearing, and I did not mean my book to be for adults that way. I wanted to convey that my book is family-friendly even if it is directed to adults. So I came up with the term "children’s book for grownups". But Amazon has no such category so grudgingly I published my book under “short stories” and “contemporary fiction".

I envision children’s books for grownups to be about helping adults see the world through the eyes of a child and learn from children. These books are inspirational and motivational without necessarily being religious. Because they deal with adult themes they are therefore anchored in reality, but they contain elements of the magical, the unexpected or the unusual commonly found in children’s books. My intended target population for these books is adults who have had or have children, although I have received very enthusiastic comments about my book from people in other age groups.

So, have I created a new literary genre? No matter how much I try to remember, I cannot recall ever reading something like this. But maybe you can help me out. The Sun Zebra will be free on Amazon from Wednesday April 11 to Friday April 13. Perhaps you can read my book (it’s a short read) to get a better grasp of what I mean, and then let me know if you have ever read anything like it by leaving a comment in this post.

The link to my book is: The Sun Zebra

I want to thank Karen & PJ for the chance to post as a guest on their blog. I am Rolando Garcia, the peculiar eclectic writer.
My website is: http://phantomimic.weebly.com/
You can follow me on Twitter: @Phantomimic

Creativity Is Therapy, a guest post

Sun, 08 Apr 2012 16:41:16 +0100

by Brooklyn James (Author of The Boots My Mother Gave Me, An Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award Quarter Finalist)

I enjoyed reading Robert French’s guest blog about depression and its correlation to writing. His blog got me thinking about my own relationship with writing.

The completion of my first novel, The Boots My Mother Gave Me, was a New Year’s resolution. I had no intentions of completing a book. The coming of age Dysfiction is about a young girl overcoming an abusive childhood. Growing up in a dysfunctional, abusive household, I had some excess baggage I needed to drop off at the dump. My New Year’s resolution was to do just that through a cathartic written exploration of my life experiences. I started the writing process with a nonfiction approach. At page 70, I hit a roadblock and simply could not continue. I started over with the mindset to follow my innate storyteller in remedying my experiences by allowing myself to throw in some fiction here and there, which I found to be much more tolerable than real life. I always ask my readers: If you could rewrite the script of your life, what would it be?

I am in no way delusional about my childhood or how I have chosen to process and allow that experience to shape me. However, I found it quite liberating to rewrite it, coming to terms with and mending what was broken in the words of my story. It is the cheapest and most rewarding therapy I have yet to experience.

Being a singer/songwriter in the Live Music Capital of Austin, Texas, I was in studio with production of my first full-length original album at the same time I was purging my story. While in studio, I realized some of my tracks shared titles with chapters within my book. And each song title that shared a chapter title was in fact inspired by that moment in my life. In my mind, we had no choice but to combine the two, as both the book and the album were created out of the same vein, so to speak. So, was the birth of the original music soundtrack to accompany the novel, The Boots My Mother Gave Me.

We were invited by our local PBS affiliate to do a televised forum…a combination of literature and music. We did readings from the novel interspersed with acoustic music performances from the soundtrack, providing an emotional underbelly to each scene, much the same a musical score does for a movie. We called the forum, Creativity Is Therapy. To this day, all the gigs, book signings and appearances I’ve made, that was the most memorable…the most prolific for me.

The same as Robert French so eloquently narrated that depression can be molded as a positive in writing, so can our demons. Creativity IS therapy. Novelist, Brian W. Aldiss said, “Whatever creativity is, it is in part a solution to a problem.” Whatever your art—be it writing, painting, cooking—get healthy, get creative. GOT MILK…GOT CREATIVE THERAPY?

Visit Brooklyn's website here