Where Everything Relates to Writing ~~ A blogging series hosted by Shonell Bacon, The Original ChickLitGurrl™ in which writers talk about writing and its relation to various topics!
Showing posts with label All the Blog's a Page. Show all posts
Showing posts with label All the Blog's a Page. Show all posts
Mike Mullin’s first job was scraping the gum off the undersides of desks at his high school. From there, things went steadily downhill. He almost got fired by the owner of a bookstore due to his poor taste in earrings. He worked at a place that showed slides of poopy diapers during lunch (it did cut down on the cafeteria budget). The hazing process at the next company included eating live termites raised by the resident entomologist, so that didn’t last long either. For a while Mike juggled bottles at a wine shop, sometimes to disastrous effect. Oh, and then there was the job where swarms of wasps occasionally tried to chase him off ladders. So he’s really hoping this writing thing works out.
Mike holds a black belt in Songahm Taekwondo. He lives in Indianapolis with his wife and her three cats. ASHFALL is his first novel.
Many visitors to Yellowstone National Park don’t realize that the boiling hot springs and spraying geysers are caused by an underlying supervolcano. It has erupted three times in the last 2.1 million years, and it will erupt again, changing the Earth forever.
Fifteen-year-old Alex is home alone when the supervolcano erupts. His town collapses into a nightmare of darkness, ash, and violence, forcing him to flee. He begins a harrowing trek in search of his parents and sister, who were visiting relatives 140 miles away.
Along the way, Alex struggles through a landscape transformed by more than a foot of ash. The disaster brings out the best and worst in people desperate for food, clean water, and shelter. When an escaped convict injures Alex, he searches for a sheltered place where he can wait—to heal or to die. Instead, he finds Darla. Together, they fight to achieve a nearly impossible goal: surviving the supervolcano.
The first two chapters are available at Mike Mullin's website!
Click the cover above to order your copy of ASHFALL today!
The Interview
What are FIVE adjectives that you would use to describe your novel, ASHFALL?
Realistic, Grim, Violent, Touching, and (ultimately) Hopeful
ASHFALL is your debut novel. In the process of writing it and having it published, what are FOUR things you've learned?
I hate querying literary agents.
Letting go of my novel—watching it move from a file on my computer that I can edit any time I want, to a printed book—was a lot more difficult emotionally than I thought it would be.
There is a large community of wonderfully supportive writers, bloggers, and booksellers out there. I’ve been humbled by their help and support.
The second book isn’t easier to write than the first. I thought it would be. Oh well.
Most writers are inspired by something--other writers, other books, specific people, things they see... What are THREE things that inspired you to write ASHFALL?
A few years ago one of my friends was attacked on the Monon Trail. A group of five guys decided they wanted his $10 garage-sale bicycle, so they hit him over the back of the head with a 2x4 and kicked him more than 20 times, breaking his skull and numerous other bones. The attackers thought they’d killed him, so they dragged him into some bushes to hide his body.
My friend lived and mostly recovered, but the event had a profound impact on me. I became unreasonably fearful, not wanting to leave my home, even though the attack didn’t happen in my neighborhood.
Instead of becoming a shut in, I took up taekwondo. There I met a 15-year-old third-degree black belt, Ben Alexander, who became the main inspiration for Alex.
So three things that inspired ASHFALL: living with and overcoming a visceral sense of fear, learning taekwondo, and meeting Ben Alexander.
These days, it's hard for an author to push his or her work if s/he is not using social media in some way. What are TWO ways in which you are using social media to promote ASHFALL?
Right now I’m way behind on social media. Writing ASHEN WINTER (the sequel to ASHFALL) and touring for ASHFALL is taking almost all my time. But I still reply to all the @ messages I get on Twitter, and stay engaged to a limited extent on Goodreads, Facebook, and Google+.
Social media has been particularly valuable for reaching teachers, librarians, and bloggers. I’m not sure I’m doing a good job reaching my target audience, teens, though. I hope to launch a new effort shortly—the “Could You Survive a Supervolcano” quiz. You’ll be able to answer 15 questions, find out whether you’re ready for Yellowstone, and share your results on social media. So I’m hoping that will reach more teens.
Was that two ways? Close enough.
Although we as authors ultimately hope a reader loves our book and will continue to read our future works, what is ONE thing you hope readers will also come away with having read ASHFALL?
A sense of the impermanence of life. We don’t know how long we’ll be here, either as individuals or as a civilization, so it behooves us to make the best of the time we’ve got.
CHAMSIL is an author with over ten years of creative writing experience. CHAMSIL possesses multi-dimensionality as he can easily tailor his writing style to a variety of genres, which include urban, erotica, suspense, comedy, horror, etc. CHAMSIL has the ability to draw in an audience with his storytelling and imagery. CHAMSIL has never been one to bite his tongue on controversial topics such as sex, rape, abuse, murder, etc. He definitely likes to keep it raw and most importantly real, because he strongly feels that if he can't convey his feelings in the realest way that he knows how, then he is performing a true disservice to all readers out there. CHAMSIL possesses and intense passion for writing and is always brainstorming new concepts, which keep his creativity as fresh as it possibly can be. At the end of the day, CHAMSIL feels that it is all about four major components: hunger, determination, drive and passion to get your voice out there and be heard and most importantly...respected. CHAMSIL is the complete creative package. You get all of him and nothing less.
This is the heart, mind, body and soul of CHAMSIL.
You can also learn more about CHAMSIL at his website and at the following spots on the web: Facebook, Twitter, and YouTube.
The Book
For Unbeknownst:
Memphis, Tennessee, 20th century.
Jamin Edson is a young business professional, boyfriend, and father of one who sorely lacks the connection, but is seeking love and acceptance within the confines of his family structure. Although, he has longed for this interaction, it has seemed so far from his reach. So far, that he continuously feels defeated. Lindsay Beauregard is a young business professional, girlfriend, and mother of one who is inflexible in every stretch of the imagination. She is very aggressive, opinionated and does things entirely in the manner in which she feels they need to be done. Hope Edson is a young child and daughter of Jamin and Lindsay, who becomes an unfortunate victim of circumstance and entangled in the web that is her parents’ tumultuous and challenging relationship. When Jamin makes the drastic decision to flee the city, abandoning his family in a last ditch effort to escape the persistent and volatile drama, Lindsay is left with no choice but to pick up the remaining pieces of the shattered mirror. Sadly, Hope is also forced to pick up a piece in order to reflect on her life and where she’s headed, even at a very young age.
Take a journey into their worlds in order to see how lives are forever changed and how those same lives run in parallel to one another in entirely different environments over a span of a number of years. Witness the trials and tribulations, heartache and pain, successes, pitfalls, and shortcomings that are the result of one fateful decision. There are many lessons to be learned. Life goes on. Life brings about new experiences. Life has inevitable challenges. Life isn’t always what it seems. But, ultimately, life catches up with you, sooner or later. The only question is…will you be ready when it does?
This is Unbeknownst.
Click the image above to learn more about Unbeknownst and other works by CHAMSIL!
Plotter ... Pantser
Are you a plotter or pantser...and why? Talk to us about your plotter/pantser role as it relates to the experience you had in writing your latest publication.
You have introduced a very interesting topic, Ms. Bacon, and I must say that I am on both sides of the spectrum when it comes to the writing that I have done, albeit published or non-published over the course of my literary career. Please allow me to elaborate in more detail. I write in both traditional and non-traditional (floetic) formats. When I started writing my very first novel, Unbeknownst, in the Spring of 2005, I totally had to outline it in order to adequately conceptualize how I wanted all the pieces to come together and ultimately become the powerful story that it is. Unbeknownst is written in traditional format. I needed that structure and baseline to not only help strengthen me as a writer, but more importantly help me truly understand how a traditionally-written book should be assembled. My initial outline was a great start, but of course as time went on I had to add things, take things out, make changes, so on and so forth in order to give it the meat that it needed to make an impact. In between me finishing and releasing Unbeknownst as a published product, I wrote and released a free traditionally-written novel, Of This Analverse (An Erotiq Comedy) via MySpace in 2008. This also had to be outlined in order to make sure that it was structurally sound. This was deemed a success by those who read it and it was thoroughly enjoyed and readers had plenty to say about what they experienced with that effort.
Now, on the flipside with my non-traditional (floetic) writing, I pretty much fly by the seat of my pants on those. I have written so many poems that it's crazy. I'm talking thousands. I can be so much more spontaneous and words seems to come to me at so much of a faster rate that it actually excites and challenges me more when I write this way. In a way, floetic is my first love. But, I totally can create in both ways. I've published two books written in the non-traditional format. These books are the LOAD memoirs (An Erotiq Anthology) and Breaux (An Urban Nightmare). I'm actually able to take the reader on such a visually stimulating journey that I feel eclipses the effectiveness that a traditionally-written effort can bring forth. Many people who have purchased my books have shared their thoughts and enjoyment levels with reading something so different and unlike the norm, that they appreciated it more. One thing people could never say about me is that I did it like this person or that person. My writing style, my topics, and overall the way I go about approaching a project is one of a kind. I truly believe that.
My most recent publication is Breaux (An Urban Nightmare) which I released in May of 2011. It's just a wild literary ride. As I rewind the clock back to 2008, I had multiple projects that I was working on. I've slowed down a little bit since then, but I was on a mission to open minds. I was still working on Unbeknownst. Of This Analverse was being written for web release. I conceptualized the LOAD memoirs and Breaux and started slowly but surely putting those together. I was writing other short stories and putting those out there. I was in full scale attack mode. I always knew that Unbeknownst, the LOAD memoirs and Breaux would be my first three published efforts. My vision became a reality. I've worked so hard for this. But, I'm just beginning to scratch the surface. I do believe in myself and strongly believe that a creative mind will outlast the cookie cutter formula to writing books any day. Even if it takes a while to open eyes, I will never stop being who I am.
i am CHAMSIL and i am a plotter AND a pantser.
The Excerpt
From Unbeknownst
I.
A person’s vocal inflexion can dictate a certain level of emotion at any given moment.
“I am so fucking sick and tired of arguing with you all the damn time!” Jamin yelled with a scowl of disgust plastered all over his face.
“Well, if you wouldn’t be so damn stupid, I wouldn’t have to argue with your stupid ass, hear?!” Lindsay responded with a scowl on her face possessing even more intensity.
Lindsay Beauregard and Jamin Edson, a young couple, had been in a relationship for about four years. Trust, it had been a rocky four years, too. They made their home in Whitehaven; a neighborhood located on the south side of Memphis, Tennessee. Both being natives of the Memphis area, they met while attending college at Memphis State University. It was love at first sight and they became damn near inseparable.
But, set the clock forward and one could easily assume that these two individuals hated each other with a passion. But, the regression in their relationship did not happen overnight. Things were real good early on and they did everything together. They worked hard. They played hard. But, most importantly, they loved hard. But, things started to change about a year after their daughter, Hope, was born.
Granted, the couple experienced hardships, but Jamin slowly started to see how Lindsay treated him differently. She stopped paying him much attention, which caused him to become bitter. He had become so infuriated with the situation that there were several occasions where Hope would be crying persistently, and he would never leave his permanent post in the living room to see what the problem was. He would simply ignore her cries and keep doing what it was that he wanted to do. This was regardless if Lindsay was at home or not.
Arguments occurred quite regularly around their home, and Hope was in close proximity during the majority of them. Lindsay tried her hardest to shield Hope from the tumultuous and dysfunctional side of her and Jamin’s relationship. However, that was easier said than done. Lindsay understood how critical it was, because she was a product of an emotionally and physically abusive relationship. She could still vividly recall seeing punches and slaps as a child, as if it had just happened yesterday.
A native New Yorker, Deborah Batterman is a fiction writer and essayist. Her stories have appeared in anthologies as well as various print and online journals. A story from her debut collection, Shoes Hair Nails, available in both print and digital editions, was nominated for the Pushcart Prize. She continues to seek that balance between the longer work-in-progress (i.e., the novel) and the shorter, of-the-moment posts on her blog, The Things She Thinks About. . .
The settings of these stories - 1980s New York City, 1950s Brooklyn, Las Vegas, an exurban town post-9/11 - are as diverse as the rich palette of characters drawn with heart, humor, and sensuality. With a sharp sense of the telling detail, Deborah Batterman weaves narratives around the everyday symbols in our world and their resonance in our lives.
Click the cover above to purchase Shoes Hair Nails today!
Plotter ... Pantser
Are you a plotter or pantser...and why? Talk to us about your plotter/pantser role as it relates to the experience you had in writing your latest publication.
A plotter or a pantser? Somehow, I see this an interesting variation on the question of plot-driven vs. character-driven stories, the point being you have to start somewhere.
For me it often begins with an image. The genesis of “Shoes,” for example, was seeing pairs of shoes lined up on the floor of parents’ bedroom, each with its own story, collectively a narrative about a relationship. Another story in my collection, “Hair,” began with a line – “The last time I saw my mother I was propped on a phone book in a red leather chair at Jeanie’s Hair Salon.” “Crazy Charlotte,” a title that’s as much an image as an ironic reference, is a composite character, though I do picture a woman from my childhood who was a bit offbeat, maybe troubled. This approach probably makes me a little more of a pantser—I let the image linger, see where it takes me, at least as a kind of jump-start to a story.
Where do I go from there? Writing, as I see it, is an act of discovery. With fiction – and even more so with poetry – it demands a certain willingness to get beneath the surface of consciousness, give in to the unexpected. Decisions about perspective -- e.g., first person, third person, dual perspective – need to be integral to the narration, not imposed. Finding that balance is part intuition (i.e., pantser), part skillful weaving (i.e., plotter). There are writers who insist you cannot write a story without a full bio of your main character. I’m happiest when I discover something I did not know about him or her.
All of which is to say, from the very beginning I usually have a sense of where a story is headed, but the discoveries and detours along the way are what shape it and bring it to its denouement. As I sit down to write, scenes will come to mind; one scene leads to another, a sequence unfolding around an image, a situation, an event giving rise to a short story. Maybe for its sheer magnitude, a novel demands more of charted course. That doesn’t mean I won’t start out ‘from the gut,’ so to speak. The novel I’m currently at work on is framed around the archetype of a journey, a modern-day ‘Odyssey’ of sorts, rooted in the four cardinal directions. Originally I began it in the East, with the other sections clearly spelled out, only to realize about halfway into it, that the starting point was wrong. In a way, there’s a kind of dance that goes on, ‘pantser’ and ‘plotter’ making room for each other when the time comes for a shift. In the sense that revision is, literally, “to see again,” each draft is a chance for a writer to consider whether the ‘pantser’ has flown a little too freely and lost ground or whether the ‘plotter’ has never really gotten off the ground at all.
Bettye Griffin is the author of eleven contemporary romances and six works of women's fiction. In 2009 she founded Bunderful Books and has been publishing her novels independently since that time. Originally from Yonkers, New York, she now makes her home in Southeast Wisconsin. For more information about Bettye and her novels, visit her web sites, www.bettyegriffin.com and www.bunderfulbooks.com.
In this updated, revised eBook version of Bettye Griffin’s classic novel originally published in 1999…
Ava Maxwell has made a career out of helping other people with their dreams as the leading wedding planner in the trendy but troubled city of Palmdale, Florida. She cherishes the idea of couples starting marriages and creating families…knowing that for her, the reality was painfully different.
Ten years before Ava walked out on her marriage when she and her ex-husband received the devastating news that she would never be able to have children…the one thing her ex wanted most. The intervening years have been marked by aborted relationships, her only comfort being the belief that she will finally be able to claim happiness once she reaches the point in her life where she would no longer be expected to bear children…but she’s only thirty-five years old and lonely, and ‘that certain age’ is still a good ten years away.
Then, in the same remarkable evening, Ava encounters both an eight-year-old purse snatcher and an exciting new man in town. Unlikely alliances are formed, bonds that soon deepen into something more special than she’s ever known. Could these two be the key to her attaining…A Love of Her Own?
Click the cover above to purchase A Love of Her Own today!
Plotter ... Pantser
Are you a plotter or pantser...and why?
I'm definitely a plotter. In my years as a tradntionally published author, I sold on synopsis, not on an entire manuscript. Even with me now independently publishing my novels, I have to make sure a story will work before I start writing...don't want to get halfway through and then have to throw it out.
Talk to us about your plotter/pantser role as it relates to the experience you had in writing your latest publication.
My latest eBook, A Love of Her Own, is actually a re-release, although one that has been revised and updated. My most recent new project, The Heat of Heat, started with a general idea: I wanted to give my readers the sequel to From This Day Forward that they wanted, about the heroine's much younger half sisters. Then I decided to add the daughter from my book Closer Than Close, who was in the same region and was about the same age. I made them college friends. I knew I wanted different types of romances: the scenario where a woman gets swept off her feet, the scenario where the couple act on sexual impulse, and the traditional scenaro loaded with angst.
From there I laid out the women's characters (they had been introduced previously, but as teenagers...they are grown women now). I decided they had all been business majors and were all running service industries: a limousine service (Sinclair), an event planning service (Yolanda), and, the least glamorous, an office cleaning service (Chantal), because Eastern Long Island is also a place where ordinary people live and work. That made choosing the men's professions easier: the partner for Sinclair's limo service operator would be a wealthy businessman visiting the area (Ivan), and she had to drive him herself because they were so busy. I originally had event planner Yolanda meeting her partner, rising pop singer Carlos, at an event she was organizing, but changed that to a concert at a small, intimate venue. I wanted to give that aura of magic as he spotted her in the audience and visibly became mesmerized, plus it seemed like a good way to introduce most of the major characters.
As for Chantal, the custodial service manager, I had her having to fill in for an ailing employee at an upscale office, where she encountered Trystian, a CPA who instantly antagonizes her by calling her by the name of the regular cleaning person without looking up. I had heard about a 1930s script writer who wanted to use a real-life incident of the back of a woman's dress getting caught in the fly of a man she didn't know at a party (in the end he had to modify it somewhat to appease the censors of the time), and decided that would be a good way for them to have their second encounter, after both of them had freshened up in the locker room on the premises. There's more to it than that, but I don't want to spoil it for readers who might not yet have read the book.
Excerpt
Excerpt from A Love of Her Own by Bettye Griffin
Frank’s Fish Box was a popular informal seafood restaurant on Ocean Avenue in Nile Beach. The two-story restaurant was large and square, actually shaped like a box. Like every other building in the area it was lit with Christmas lights. Because of its boxy shape, the overall effect was that of an oversize Christmas gift.
It was also full, but only four people were waiting to be seated in the reception and bar area in the front. The hostess took their name and assured them a table would be available within the next fifteen minutes.
“Let’s have a drink,” Hilton suggested. They sat at the bar, and Ava ordered a Chardonnay, Hilton a Seven and Seven.
“Ava, hi!”
“Linda! What a surprise! I thought you were living in West Palm.” Ava warmly hugged the attractive fortyish woman who’d been passing by with a companion.
“I am, but we came to spend the holiday at my father’s. It was here that we met two years ago. I guess we’re just sentimental.” She took the arm of the bespectacled man standing to her left, whose black hair contained a smattering of gray. “Honey, this is Ava Maxwell, an old friend of mine. Ava, this is my husband, Neil Barkley.”
Ava shook hands with Linda’s husband, then introduced Hilton to both of them. “Tell me, will you be here for the entire holiday season?” she asked, beaming. She was so happy for her friend, whose face just glowed.
“Until January second.”
“Then you must come to my open house New Year’s Day. Take down my address.”
The bartender placed their drinks in front of them just as Linda completed writing down Ava’s address. Neil held up his hand. “I’ll take care of that, bartender,” he said.
“Oh, that’s all—” Hilton began.
“No, I insist,” Neil said. He squeezed Linda’s shoulders affectionately. “We’re celebrating. Linda’s pregnant.”
Ava placed her hand palm down on the surface of the bar and swallowed hard. Pregnant? Linda? If it were anyone else…but Linda? How could that be?
The answer came to her just as quickly.
It couldn’t be.
Hilton was offering congratulations and pumping Neil’s hand. “Hey, that’s wonderful.”
“Um...will you excuse me?” Ava asked. “I’ll be back in a minute.” She knew Hilton and Neil would think her behavior odd, but she had to compose herself, quickly, and in private.
“I think I’ll go along,” Linda said. She hurried off behind Ava.
In the privacy of the lounge area of the ladies powder room, Linda said, “Thanks for not giving me away. I know Neil’s announcement came as a shock.”
“Linda, what’s going on? In our infertility support group you said your endometriosis was so severe you had to have a hysterectomy.”
“I did. It cost me a husband, and I thought I’d never get over it. But then I met Neil. He’s wonderful, Ava. He’s been married before, too, but only for a few years. He’s gotten everything he’s wanted out of life except children. He told me from the beginning that he wanted a family, that even one child would be fine. I agreed.”
“Linda, how could agree to such a thing when you knew it was impossible?”
“I didn’t want to lose him, Ava! Don’t you understand? I can’t be dumped twice in a lifetime because I can’t have kids!”
Ava took her friend’s hand. “I know what happened to you was devastating, and I think your husband—your first husband, I mean—was a macho heel to treat you the way he did, but don’t you see how wrong this is? Obviously you can’t keep up the charade forever. So what happens? A miscarriage? Surely you’re not going to steal someone’s baby!”
“Of course not. It’ll be a miscarriage. What other choice do I have? I’ve been faking having periods all this time.”
Ava shook her head. “Linda, how could you?”
“Everybody can’t be as noble as you are, Ava, and walk out of an otherwise happy marriage.”
“But it’s what Neil wanted. How can you knowingly deprive him of that?”
“I have no choice,” Linda repeated. “It’ll be soon, after we’re back home. He has to go out of town on business the second week in January, and by the time he gets home it’ll all be over. Then I’ll just never be able to conceive. That’s not so unusual for women my age. I’m forty-two, you know. Maybe then Neil will want to adopt. He wasn’t too keen on the idea when I suggested that my childbearing years might be behind me.”
“Oh, Linda.” Ava shook her head.
“Please go along with me on this, Ava. I can’t tell you how much it means to me.”
“What about your family? How do you know your father won’t give it away?”
“My father doesn’t even know I had a hysterectomy. All I told him at the time was that I needed gynecological surgery. He knew from when my mother was alive that I had all kinds of female troubles, but I didn’t have the surgery until after my mother had passed. You know how uncomfortable men are with those details. He’s remarried now, and my stepmother doesn’t know about it either. Ava, are you with me on this? I need to know.”
“I won’t say anything,” she said after a long moment of silence.
“Oh, thank you, honey!” Linda hugged her, but it was with a limp hand that Ava patted her friend’s shoulder.
Mike Mullin’s first job was scraping the gum off the undersides of desks at his high school. From there, things went steadily downhill. He almost got fired by the owner of a bookstore due to his poor taste in earrings. He worked at a place that showed slides of poopy diapers during lunch (it did cut down on the cafeteria budget). The hazing process at the next company included eating live termites raised by the resident entomologist, so that didn’t last long either. For a while Mike juggled bottles at a wine shop, sometimes to disastrous effect. Oh, and then there was the job where swarms of wasps occasionally tried to chase him off ladders. So he’s really hoping this writing thing works out.
Mike holds a black belt in Songahm Taekwondo. He lives in Indianapolis with his wife and her three cats. ASHFALL is his first novel.
Many visitors to Yellowstone National Park don’t realize that the boiling hot springs and spraying geysers are caused by an underlying supervolcano. It has erupted three times in the last 2.1 million years, and it will erupt again, changing the Earth forever.
Fifteen-year-old Alex is home alone when the supervolcano erupts. His town collapses into a nightmare of darkness, ash, and violence, forcing him to flee. He begins a harrowing trek in search of his parents and sister, who were visiting relatives 140 miles away.
Along the way, Alex struggles through a landscape transformed by more than a foot of ash. The disaster brings out the best and worst in people desperate for food, clean water, and shelter. When an escaped convict injures Alex, he searches for a sheltered place where he can wait—to heal or to die. Instead, he finds Darla. Together, they fight to achieve a nearly impossible goal: surviving the supervolcano.
The first two chapters are available at Mike Mullin's website!
Plotter ... Pantser
Are you a plotter or pantser...and why?
Yes, I am, thank you. A plotter and a pantser. In fact, I don’t think any of us are purely one or the other. It’s sort of like autism spectrum disorder—all writers fall somewhere on the plotter/pantser spectrum. Writing is probably a disorder, too, but I’ll leave that for you to judge.
No, you protest? I plot every detail of my story and follow my outline with religious fervor. Or, I never plan ahead—how dare you suggest I put my precious characters into straitjackets? My response: you need to try the other style.
I’m not pulling this suggestion out of my butt. (Clearly I’m capable of pulling ideas from there—I write fiction, after all.) Deren Hansen recently posted a helpful piece on Literary Rambles summarizing recent psychological research on this topic. The punch line: “People with a rational problem-solving style (plotters) and people who approach problems intuitively (pantsers) generated more creative answers when they were asked to solve a problem using the opposite style.”
I’ve tried both. I pantsed my first novel, which may forever remain in a drawer. But even while pantsing that novel, I had plot ideas in my head. I even had whole scenes written out—I was pantsing the spaces between them, not the whole thing. I’m now on my fifth full revision of that novel—one of which was a rewrite done plotter-style.
I plotted my second novel, ASHFALL, which will be released by Tanglewood Press on 10/11/11. By plotted, I mean I started with five pages of chaotic notes about the novel. I frequently pantsed my way off the plan. For example, I stayed with my uncle, who was dying of metastasized colon cancer, for a few days while I was drafting ASHFALL. While I was there, I wrote a section of ASHFALL that had never appeared in any of my notes. In those two chapters, Alex, my protagonist, meets a family grieving their dead father.
Later, my wife and I took a road trip to Iowa to drive the route Alex takes while trying to find his family. A stop in Bellevue, at Mississippi Lock and Dam Number 12, inspired another couple of pantsed chapters, in which Alex crosses the Mississippi.
Plot if you want, but be open to pantsing. Pants if you want, but be open to plotting. Whatever it takes to reach your maximum creative potential and give your readers the novel they deserve.
Talk to us about your plotter/pantser role as it relates to the experience you had in writing your latest publication.
Oops, I already covered this question in my answer to the first. I should have plotted this interview instead of pantsing it. Sorry about that.
An author, educator and entrepreneur, Tracey M. Lewis-Giggetts offers those who hear her speak or read her writing an authentic experience; an opportunity to explore identity, faith, and purpose at the deepest levels. Serving as an adjunct professor at several universities in PA and NJ, Lewis holds a Bachelor of Arts degree in Communication from the University of Kentucky, an M.B.A. from Montclair State University in New Jersey, and is currently finishing a M.F.A in Creative Writing from Fairleigh Dickinson University.
As an author she has published two award-winning poetry collections (Collapsed and Divine Nepotism) and is the author of three additional books, including the celebrated Christian fiction "Gospel" series. Her last novel, Interruption: The Gospel According to Crystal Justine, is a dynamic and compelling exploration of the role of generational curses in one young woman's pursuit of love and destiny. In the Fall of 2011, Tracey's first non-fiction project will be published by Beacon Hill Press and is titled, The Integrated Church: Strategies for Multicultural Ministry.
Lewis’ writing has also been published in local, regional, and national publications such as Philadelphia Weekly, Legacy Magazine, African American Career World, and Workplace Diversity. This Louisville, KY native and Philadelphia resident is a regular blogger and also co-penned the critically acclaimed stage play, KHEPERA, which ran off-Broadway in 2002.
You can learn more about Lewis and her works by visiting her on Facebook and by checking out her official website.
Award-winning author Kit Frazier is a professional journalist and winner of Barnes & Noble Author of the Month and Mystery Guild Pick of the Month.
As a member of Austin Search and Rescue and Civilian Police Patrol, Kit participates in research and training with the FBI and Austin Police Department, which provides lots of opportunity for murder, mayhem and some really hot guys.
Represented by one of the top literary agencies in New York, Edward Dean Arnold is the author of Soul Disclosure and Lovin' Mrs. Jones. In addition to being a full-time writer, he is also the President & Publisher of PENDIUM Publishing House and the founder of the creative venue selfplug.com. Born in Eastern North Carolina, Edward is currently working on several literary projects which include his next novel titled No Love Left. To find out more, visit his website or check him out on Facebook.
Lauren Baratz-Logsted left her day job as an independent bookseller in 1994 to take a chance on herself as a writer. While trying to get published, over the next eight years she worked as many as four part-time jobs at once to keep the bills paid. She also wrote seven novels during that time period, the sixth of which, The Thin Pink Line, was the one that finally sold. Since 2003, she’s had 19 books published for adults (Vertigo; Baby Needs a New Pair of Shoes), teens (Crazy Beautiful; The Education of Bet), tweens (Me, In Between) and even young children (The Sisters 8 series). In 2011, she’ll have three more books published, including Little Women and Me, about a contemporary teen who literally gets sucked into the classic Louisa May Alcott novel where she discovers herself to be a fifth March sister.
You can learn more about Lauren and her literary works at her [website] and by checking her out on [Twitter].
Samara King began her literary journey at the age of twelve years old while sneaking to the back of the library and indulging in romance novels; soon after, she wrote her own! She has penned three novels and eleven novellas all within the multicultural erotic romance genre, as well as two poetry collections.
In 2010, Samara launched SK MINIs, her novella imprint to be headed by Samara King Books, her self-publishing company.
Her first poetry collection, The Ebony Kryptonite, will be followed by The Naked The Bare. She has been published by Cobblestone Press, Changeling Press, Loose Id, and Total-e-Bound to date.
Currently she is working on her next SK MINI project.
Samara lives with her teenage son, where she encounters new adventures every day that service her in the creation of each of her stories!
These days, writers need to grab the reader on the first page. Firsts is a new segment that will be featured on ChickLitGurrl: high on LATTES & WRITING [website] and/or All the Blog's a Page [website]. With Firsts, authors can send to me the first page of their novel and the following information:
Book cover
Book description (what we'd read on the back cover of your novel
Author pic
Short author bio (what we might read on the back cover of your novel or the author page within your novel)
I will schedule the feature on one of the above sites and send out alerts on the feature's post on various social media outlets.
What I envision Firsts to be is that sneak peek into a novel that often moves us to take a book to the counter of a bookstore and buy it.
If you'd like to have your first promoted on CLG or AtBaP, e-mail me.
Brandelyn N. Castine is the author of Everybody Plays the Fool (novel), Spoken Silence: Life in four parts (a volume of poetry), U.G.L.Y. (novel), Spoken Silence Volume 2 (forthcoming volume of poetry). Brandelyn currently lives in the Bay Area where she is a full time writer and contributes freelance projects for Leather, Empressand Vapors Magazines. Brandelyn is also a contributing author in the Gumbo For the Soul anthology, a project that was created to raise funds to support literacy programs in the Bay Area, as well as the When I was Was There, Life at Berkeley 1960- 2010 anthology project.
Meet Blair Hughes, a beautiful, intelligent and talented young woman who believes her identity is defined by her size 22 waistline. With constant scrutiny about her weight and a pattern of failed diets, Blair has given up trying be the perfect size six and has allowed herself to fade into the background.
Blair’s unforeseen romance with Salim Martin, a talented young writer begins to chip away at her insecurity and forces her to look at herself differently. As Salim works overtime to show her how beautiful she truly is, his best efforts are not strong enough to keep Blair from waiting for the other shoe to drop.
When an unexpected betrayal rocks her world, Blair flees from her friends and family to get a fresh start in the unpredictable streets of New York City. However this new life forces Blair to deal with a lot more than she bargained for.
Suddenly forced to recreate her personal definition, Blair travels through a series of right and wrong turns, chance encounters and unimaginable situations that ultimately lead her to a place where she is able to look past the physical and discover what it truly means to be U.G.L.Y.
Click the cover above to order your copy of U.G.L.Y. today!
A GOOD Book
What is your definition of a good book?
The best analogy I can give when thinking about the definition of a good book is Alice In Wonderland. I love the scene where she peeks into the Rabbit's hole, falls in and tumbles, twists and turns, finally landing in a whole new world. To me, that is exactly what a good book does for you. When you first open the pages of a new book, you have no real idea where the story will take you. So you peek inside, hoping for the best, and before you know it, you are twisting and turning and falling into a whole new world. Everything is strange, yet familiar and suddenly you find yourself oblivious to the reality around you and sucked into everything that is happening around you in this fictitious world. A good book gives you an escape and allows you to travel and explore a whole new world.
How does your latest literary offering qualify as that "good book"?
My latest novel U.G.L.Y. is a good book because the characters are human. Their insecurities and life choices are familiar and allow the reader to identify with their questions and doubts and victories and it is this connection that enables the reader to jump feet first into the story. I am really big on description because I want my readers to feel everything the characters are feeling and feel as though they are right there in the scene with them. U.G.L.Y. covers the full gamut of emotions, but is not light on the humor. The story is one that you find hard to put down and allows the reader to discover something new about themselves every time they read it.
Excerpt
"Fat Bitch!"
Everything around me seemed to freeze as the vicious words reverberated above my head. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to mentally shake the heaviness of the painful language from my shoulders where it now laid to rest. I looked around me and saw the universal look of pity mixed with anger and confusion from his eyes that seemed to blink at the brightness of the sudden and unwelcome attention that was now focused on me. He turned his head back to the street; his eyes scanned the cars as they seemingly crept past us slowly, as though even they were unsure how to react. I sucked in a deep breath, and exhaled, shaking the world back to life with the shuddering motion of my head, somehow summoning enough strength to force a plastic smile onto my face.
"What the hell was that?" his voice said loudly, competing with the uncompromising presence of the New York City streets. His eyes tried to camouflage the embarrassment and uncertainty that seemed to pour out of him. He turned to me once again and scanned my face for a reaction.
I focused my attention ahead and felt my face begin to strain against the fake smile that painted itself across it.
"I don't even know who that was,' I said tucking a loose curl behind my ear and tugging at my shirt hoping I could get it to cover up my shame, ‘don’t even worry about it, really.”
He looked at me and placed a bony hand on his hip. His mouth opened and closed as he racked his brain for the right thing to say.
"No, for real," he finally stuttered, "what the hell was that?"
I knew that he didn’t know what to say; that he had never had anything like that said to him; that he had never had to pretend something hadn't sliced him in half and exposed all of the inner turmoil he felt about himself. I knew that he had never been summed up in a single phrase and had been flooded with tears so plentiful that he felt his spirit would drown, all because of the words of a stranger. I knew that my embarrassment and shame were too powerful to face on a regular weekday, so mock anger seemed like the best reaction to take, the reaction that could link him to whatever he guessed I was feeling.
"Let it go, honestly," I heard a voice that sounded like mine say, lightly, while I stood rooted in my spot, watching myself continue to walk, amazed at my ability to put one foot in front of the other, head held high, shoulders straight, eyes focused. I watched myself walk away, while my soul cowered in the corner and began to shudder from silent tears.
“Girl, I don’t know why you’re being so calm. I’m ready to whoop somebody’s ass,’ he continued, each moment feeling as though he had connected to my feelings. He looked over his shoulder, continuing to search for the reason why, unable to take a good honest look into my face, unwilling to truly gage my reaction, 'that was so disgusting. Do you even know who that was?"
I watched myself smile slightly as my soul stood rooted behind crying, each tear whispering out the secrets of my life. My body knew how to pretend that it had never happened while my soul was allowed to be stunned and confused.
"No," I said again, feeling something inside of me break with each step we took. My body avoided looking into any of the glass windows that seemed to go on endlessly as we walked. I knew that I would not be able to see my soul's reflection. I knew that my soul wasn't there. My soul was still in the corner, cowering and cold. I looked back on it, shaking my head sadly, disappointed at its cowardice.
He looked back one last time to search for the car that was long gone.
Things had started off simply enough. The afternoon was turning to evening as we strolled slowly and without purpose, stopping to cool off with iced coffee at a tiny café we discovered along our travels. We continued on with our exploration, stopping in various stores in the West Village and allowed the sunshine to kiss our exposed skin. As we stood on the corner of Christopher and 7th Avenue, a white car slowed as it passed. The back window rolled down and a man in the back seat yelled out "Fat Bitch" and spat in my direction before the car peeled off, with the sound of laughter trailing behind it. We stood there for a split second, Branden standing next to me stunned, me standing next to him, stunned, and me standing next to me, shattered and drowning in my own tears.
He continued to walk, shocked and disgusted, tossing out threats, still unable to look me in my face. My body, continued to walk along side him, pretending as though it was just another day, searching my brain for something, anything to change the subject with, but my soul felt like it was snatched from my body and was instantly transported back to those high school days when my weight was the only thing anyone saw. Instantly everything I had accomplished, everything I had become melted into a simple image and I became just a fat girl again and all it took was one word from a stranger. One word from a stranger shook loose any shred of confidence I had been clinging too. One word from a stranger instantly made everything I had on uncomfortable, made me suddenly aware of every article of clothing, every piece of jewelry. Every step felt forced, but my body, with all of its years of experience in pretending that nothing happened found a joke to crack, and a store window to point out, easily successful in convincing both of us that everything was okay. My body was able to convince both of us that the incident had not happened and that I was still talented, beautiful, desired, and successful. But my soul knew the truth. My soul understood that one word from a complete stranger made me feel like I was nothing more, than a size, an image or an opinion. Every pound that I carried suddenly felt like a million. As we continued to walk, every step made me feel more and more like a fat...
A former advertising copywriter, Ellen Meister left the business world to raise a family and chase her fiction-writing dreams. She is the author of three novels, THE OTHER LIFE (Putnam, 2/2011), THE SMART ONE (HarperCollins/Avon, 8/2008) and SECRET CONFESSIONS OF THE APPLEWOOD PTA (Morrow/Avon, 8/2006), as well as numerous short stories, including a contribution to the recent MILK & INK ANTHOLOGY. She currently curates for DimeStories, a literary podcast program, and runs an online group for women authors.
Ellen lives on Long Island with her husband and three children, and is at work on her fourth novel, FAREWELL, DOROTHY PARKER.
Quinn Braverman never told her loving husband, Lewis, that the real reason she chose him over her neurotic, semi-famous ex-boyfriend, was to show her mother that she could have a happy, stable relationship with the guy next door.
But she has an even darker secret: Quinn knows another life exists in which she made the other choice and stayed with her ex-boyfriend. The two lives run in parallel lines, and there, on the other side, the Quinn who never married is speeding through her high-drama life in Manhattan. Here, she lives in the suburbs, drives a Volvo, and has an adorable young son with another baby on the way.
So far she’s played it safe, never venturing over to the other side. Then a shocking turn of events rattles Quinn, and she makes the reckless choice to finally see what she’s been missing.
There, she not only rediscovers her exciting single life, but meets the one person she thought she’d lost forever. Her mother.
But Quinn can’t have both lives. Soon, she must decide which she really wants—the one she has…or the other life?
Click the cover above to order your copy of The Other Life today!
A GOOD Book
What is your definition of a good book?
I like the way this question is phrased, because it implies that it's completely subjective ... which of course it is! Not only that, but for me the answer is a moving target that shifts according to whatever book has most recently grabbed my interest. Sometimes it's a voice that's so fresh it leaves me breathless. Other times it's a plot that pulls me in so deeply I can't put the book down. And often it's the glimpse into a truth so profoundly simple that I fall head over heels in love with a single sentence.
But always, it's the characters. And when I can feel an author's abiding affection for his or her characters, despite their flaws, I'm all in. To me, it doesn't get any better than that.
How does your latest literary offering qualify as that "good book"?
I think it's up to the readers to decide if THE OTHER LIFE fits the definition. I hope they think it does, because I believe so deeply in this book. When I got the idea to write about a woman who had the ultimate escape hatch--a portal in her basement to the life she would have had if she never got married--I felt something click. And then, once I realized who my characters were and that my protagonist's mother was dead in one life and alive in the other, I knew this was a "what-might-have-been" story I couldn't turn my back on.
In fact, when I sent my agent the proposal, I had to hold my breath waiting to hear back, because I knew I simply had to write this book, even if it she didn't approve. Fortunately, she loved it, and so did several editors who bid on it at auction. I hope readers feel the same way!
Upon reaching a certain age and noticing a certain expanding of his waistline, Anthony Anderson struck upon the idea of a writing career as a method of weight loss. He is so confident that he will not be overeating in the future, he has begun work on his second novel. You can learn more about Anthony and his writing endeavors at his [blog].
The Book
What would Latrina Emerson, unassuming librarian and church organist, have in common with an agnostic physicist and a bunch of occultists over 2000 miles away? Absolutely nothing if she could help it. Some not-so-benevolent "Forces of Light", alas, won’t let her help it. She’s part of their plan save their credibility after some recent embarrassments (Y2K failing to end the world on prophetic schedule, increasing distrust of authority, etc) and shut up those smart alecks in the Forces of Darkness. But the Forces of Darkness have never followed the Light's rules—like the ones that say they have to be totally evil or always lose in the end—and they're not about to start now. A faction of Hell, in fact, has decided that despite religious and philosophical differences, Latrina is too decent a person to be martyred "for the greater good". Warning her, however, gets a bit tricky. And the real wild card may be Latrina herself, who may not be as “manageable” as the Powers-That-Only-Think-They-Be would like.
Click the cover above to order your copy of The Vile, Sinister, and Most Utterly Diabolical Account of Latrina Emerson today!
A GOOD Book
What is your definition of a good book?
My definition of "good" as far as books, movies, music, TV shows, newspaper articles, video games, etc is so simple that some people of a more "intellectual" bent might take umbrage to it. How "good" I judge a work to be is how well it answers this question: "Do I REALLY want to spend my time with this piece?" If I'm under no outside obligation to deal with this book, film, etc (writing a review, studying it for a class or book club meeting, trying to impress some woman I met at the art museum...); do I really care what happens next in the story? Once I finish, do I feel it was a fair exchange of my time? Would I purposely listen to the song again? How much time would I spend looking at some particular piece of artwork? Would I buy this video game after renting it? A lot of times the answer has been "no", but that doesn't necessarily mean that the piece is "bad" in some objective sense. It's just that the piece didn't work for me.
How does your latest literary offering qualify as that "good book"?
Well, in light of what I've just written, the most honest thing I can say is "Dunno." It's been good for me because--now that I look back on it--it's sort of an homage to a lot of my favorite stories and ideas that have passed through my little brain during my lifetime. I loved writing it overall even when I've been so frustrated with it that I'd seriously despaired of ever completing it. Hydra M. Star, who edited the book for me, and other people who've read the earlier chapters when I was calling it "Maid of Honor" told me they liked it, so I guess it was good for them. Other people who take certain things more seriously than I do may very well NOT like it (especially once they read the book description I've included here). To such people, it could very well be a very BAD book.
I've got nothing against "literary" or "artistic" works; in fact, "highbrow" ideas are the kind of toys I like to play with. But I indulge myself in them because I enjoy doing so, not because some humorless intellectual told me that I should for posterity's sake. I'd rather concentrate on writing the best stuff I can for readers who are alive now. Being remembered by some "artist circle" decades after I'm dead and gone is not my primary concern (and from what I studied, it wasn't the primary concern of Shakespeare or many other "darlings" of the literary world either).
Excerpt
Sathariel continued. “We now must consider a crucial qualification: just how well can she handle knowledge of certain Secrets of the Universe? She may fare a little better in that category than in general combat. She’s a member of one of the more charismatic denominations of Christianity. As such, her belief system considers angels and demons to be real and palpable forces in her world. The Cherubim calculate she wouldn’t suffer as much of a shock as our more ‘practical’ candidates. Then again, belief in things beyond the physical doesn’t necessarily protect a human from severe cognitive dissonance, regardless of faith. I’m sure you can all recall problems we’ve had with visitations.”
The angels all muttered in agreement. They well remembered the Virtues’ initial attempts to recruit humans by condensing down to Earth and performing direct miracles like healing the sick, feeding the hungry, giving sight to the blind, and so forth. The fortunate recipients of these boons were then supposed to go forth and recruit even more humans for Elysium. More often than not, however, when a bunch of eight-foot tall glowing humanoids with twelve-foot blue wingspans had suddenly materialized, many so-called ‘believers’ had simply keeled over dead in shock, the little ingrates. From then on, Elysium resorted to direct manifestation and miracles much more sparingly.
***
“Okay, but as long as it’s not some mess about thugs, pimps, and prostitutes,” she said as she took the 15A exit off the Interstate and turned toward the posh center of Memphis Yuppiedom that was Germantown. She was thinking more about what she might or might not have heard on the radio a few minutes ago.
Meanwhile, the radio deejay announced that he was going to go “back in the day” with the next song. Latrina thought he meant some Motown song out of the Sixties, but apparently the announcer felt Justin Timberlake’s “Sexyback” was old enough. Mavis was in the passenger seat snapping her fingers and swaying to the beat. “Oh, yeah, that’s my shit right there, girl.”
Lord, grant me the serenity, Latrina thought, not believing the morning she was having. She didn’t have to look directly at Mavis to let her passenger know how she felt. The blank look on her face said that she took to the song in much the same way she would have taken to the suggestion that she could help increase attendance at her church by wearing only clear heels and a thong and offering lap dances during Sunday service.
“Oh, lighten up, girl,” Mavis said as she changed the station to 103.5 FM, much to Latrina’s relief. “We’ll put on some grown folks’ music for you.” They came in on the middle of Marvin Gaye crooning “Sexual Healing”. “Oh, now, that needs to be your song, Trina.”
“Yeah, when I finally get married,” she said. She preferred Marvin Gaye’s older stuff like “What’s Going On”. “Sexual Healing” was not something she wanted to think about just then.
“Well, if you want to catch a husband you might want to just modernize your wardrobe a little bit,” Mavis said as they stopped at the traffic light on Poplar and Kirby Parkway, near the shopping plaza. Marvin Gaye faded back into the static once he had had his say. No one really bothered with trying to adjust the radio as they were only a tenth of a mile from work. “I know you ain’t a ho, but would it kill you to remind the fellas once in awhile that you’re an actual woman?”
“I don’t think guys would normally wear my clothes.”
“Oh, now you’re trying to be funny, huh? Well, let me tell you what’s funny. What’s funny is that the average mummy shows more skin than you. Look, all I’m saying is that I don’t see how you going to attract a man’s attention when your clothes probably make him feel like he’s trying to push up on his grandmamma. I mean sometimes you dress like an extra for ‘The Color Purple.’”
“Hey, I liked that movie,” Latrina said. “Besides, I know you’re exaggerating because I know my clothes are not that far out of style.”
The chorus of “Time Warp” from the Rocky Horror Picture Show suddenly resounded out through the static.
“And you can just hush,” Latrina snapped at the radio, forgetting to care how that looked to Mavis.
“What would happen if…” That is the essential question that Miki Starr Martin lives and writes by. The granddaughter of poet Mai Taj Penovich, Miki first showed an appreciation for the written word at the age of 5 when she wrote a poem [later published by her grandmother] titled "Black & White." Since, she has taken every opportunity to explore the written word and creative process in new and unique ways. To date, Starr has completed 6 novels, co-authored 1 book of poetry, and compiled 1 book of short stories. She is a married mother of one and lives in St. Paul, Minnesota where she does freelance web and graphic design.
Dr. Nicollet Madison Fairway is a fictional psychotherapist straight out the mind of authoress Miki Starr Martin. Problem is - she doesn’t realize it. In a loft located in Chicago’s Pilsen neighborhood, Dr. Fairway has created a very lucrative business counseling fictitious characters through a celebrated system that has been dubbed, The Fairway Method and has been greatly successful in her treatment of many very notable fictitious characters. From Eric Jerome Dickey’s Arizona, to the late Alex Haley’s Ruthana, with many other authors’ characters in between.
Now, Dr. Fairway has decided to take on a new adventure in her practice by serving a group of characters all from a single mind. In this case, it is her very own creator, Miki Starr. Unfortunately this is a much greater undertaking than the good doctor could have ever suspected. Between the troubles with her own relatives, a family filled with arrogant, self-serving doctors, her bickering clients, and her quest for true love - Dr. Fairway is doing all that she can to hold on to her sanity while trying to help her clients find a piece of their own.
For decades, the children of the planet Marieux were told tales of the birth of a savior that would free their world from the clutches of the heartless organization that controlled it for years. Military rule, unjust laws, and recruitment of women for the purpose of serving the needs of their oppressor, exemplified the society into which they were born. But with each passing year, as civilization was further plunged into the depths of despair, it became even less conceivable that the prophecy of the Anointed Daughter of the Marinites was true.
Seventeen-year-old Olivia Kalaath, has heard this story since childhood and rejected it for just as long, despite at times being accused of being this prophecy come reality. After all, she has the golden skin tone and the extraordinary instincts synonymous with the mythical figure. Either way, being different has its price. In order to keep herself and her mother below the Shadow Realm Allegiance’s radar, she practices the age-old art of concealing, a survival technique she learned as a child. But when her best friend goes missing, Olivia must decide what she believes in once and for all.
Click the covers above to order your copies of OLIVIA and PSYCHO today!
A GOOD Book
What is your definition of a "good book"?
I find a book most intriguing when it has depth, strong characters, landscape, and realistic dialogue. If I can visualize it as though it were a movie on a screen before me rather than text on a page. If I can hear the character's voice [not create it myself]. If even after I’ve walked away from the story and come back to it, the voice is still the same. When characters have a consistent personality, idiosyncrasies, their own unique sense of humor and relatable connections to other characters in the book. When I cannot for the life of me predict what the outcome will be. And even if I can, the path there is not at all what I expected. I consider a book to be “good” when there are multiple plots so delicately woven together that you hardly even notice. Though drama is a necessary element, it needs to be purposeful. I appreciate when an author takes care with every element of bringing their tale to life, including names. There is a distinctive difference between a story that was written and a world that was created especially for me to escape to.
How does your latest literary offerings qualify as that “good book”?
There is no formula involved in my creations. No ‘short story writing 101’. No rules. Anything goes. My literary offerings are not orchestrated. I write strictly from the heart and I think that is what brings the stories to life. I get lost in their worlds, lost in their experiences. I become each and every character. I breathe them from beginning to end. If I don’t believe them, how do I expect anyone else to? For me, the characters are real. I don’t make up a story and dictate how it will turn out. They come to me and dictate to me exactly what they want me to know and share with the world. My job is never to actually author their story, but rather breathe life into it so that it is real to more than just them and to me but the reading world et al.
Excerpts
From Psycho
I’m only late this morning because Giada felt the urge to take advantage of me as her big sister and as a therapist – as usual. One o’clock in the morning finds my sister and her hubby parked at my door. I’d only just gone to bed myself about twenty minutes earlier. I’d been up late reading FLOSS, a book by an author named Monica Marie Jones. I don’t know much about the author yet but apparently one of her characters, Dionysus, has heard of me and I need some background to know what I’d be getting myself into should I take her on as a client.
I hadn’t realized there were unwanted guests in my home until Joseph crept back to the bed, tired and irritated with sleep tugging at his eyelids, shaking me into consciousness and directing me to go and deal with them.
“Gigi? Claude? What are you doing here? What time is it?”
“I guess Christian was right, you are sleeping with the man. Tsk, tsk. Giving up the milk, huh? Mom’s going to love this.” Giada is wide-awake and filled to the brim with her usual “charm.”
“I’m not giving anything up,” I say defensively in a voice that sounded more like it should have come from a toad than a human.
“Liar,” she replied with a devilish smile on her face.
“I am not sleeping…oh, what’s the use? What do you want, Giada? It’s the middle of the night.”
She took a seat on my sofa, inviting herself to stay and making herself more comfortable. Claude looked quite uncomfortable, even embarrassed by intruding in my home during these wee hours of the night but what would he have done, tell my sister ‘no’? I only wish that were possible.
“Claude has a problem. I told him that you could help him fix it.”
Claude’s brown face turned two shades darker. “Honey, please. I do not have a problem.”
“You do, Sweetie.”
“I don’t, and if I did I don’t think I’d want your sister knowing about it.”
“She’s a doctor.”
“She’s Nic.”
“Well, see, that’s your first problem. Don’t think of her as Nic right now, think of her as Dr. Fairway, psychiatrist or…or psychoanalyst-”
“Psychotherapist,” I say.
“Whatever. My point is darling, you have a psychological problem and Nic can help you solve it.”
Claude paused as though he was considering this for a moment, then looked at me with a horrified expression before turning back to his wife. “But it’s Nic.”
Giada’s eyes rolled to the ceiling. “Nicci, please. Will you excuse us for a moment?”
“Sure thing, it’s only my house,” I moaned to myself, turning away and disappearing into my kitchen to fix myself up a warm cup of vanilla soy milk while they figured out who I was to be on this night.
I leaned against the counter, sipping from my favorite mug, trying my best to tune the couple out while mentally willing them away.
“Oh, Dr. Fairway, we’re ready for you,” Giada called out.
I fought the urge to scream and reminded myself that, like it or not, Gigi is family and not just that but my baby sister. It is my God-given burden from birth to be there for her…even at one in the morning on a weeknight. I dragged my tired body back into my living room. I stopped…stood with my back to the wall, arms folded, savoring my drink and dreading what was to come.
The room was silent as I looked between the couple, Giada looking to Claude and Claude looking everywhere but at me.
“Well,” Gigi said. “Tell her.”
“Baby, please. This is embarrassing.”
“Tell her or I will.” I guess the season of compromise in this marriage was done for the night.
For a fleeting moment I thought I saw Claude’s manhood returning to him. There was a look in his eyes that almost made me believe he was going to turn to my sister and demand she hand over the key to the safe she locked his testosterone in. But, he exhaled and it all blew away. “I can’t…I can’t…” He was struggling to find the words to express to me his “problem”.
“He can’t get it up.”
“Gigi!”
Now let’s pause here and reflect. Because, see, this is the exact moment when my life flashed before my eyes. Clearly the Lord was coming for me, had to be. There was no other explanation for this. The milk that I was about to happily swallow…gone. Across the room, all on my floor. Okay, you can hit play now.
From Olivia
“Legatus Dupec. Come in, Lega. Dupec.” The scratchy voice came through loudly from the *Com Device on his waist.
Dupec groaned and took a step back. He snatched the device from his uniform pants and pressed the button on the side. “What?” he growled.
“Orders have come down from headquarters. Your immediate presence is required.”
Dupec scratched the side of his neck. Even in the dark I could see the anguish on his face. “I am busy right now.”
“My apologies but Commander Dupec has specifically requested your immediate presence.”
He stepped close to me and grazed the tips of his phalanges across my cheek as he licked his lips. “Ready the transport. Over.”
I remained poised, ready to attack...ready to defend my honor no matter the consequence. Dupec stepped back to adjust his uniform but halted. He stepped forward, firmly grasping my neck, lifting me slightly and forcing me to look into his face. I fidgeted with the glass, my mind reeling, trying hard to make the right choice while my toes strained to touch ground and I struggled to hold onto what remained of my oxygen supply.
“Do not worry. I will back for you, beautiful.”
His lips pressed to mine and my arm swung forward, the sharp glass aimed directly at his most vital internal organs. I tried hard to make contact but could not. I had not noticed her move but she had. Diana had stepped forward right on time, catching my arm and holding me back with all that was in her.
Dupec lowered me. He moved away looking suspiciously from me to Diana. My arm relaxed and her hand discreetly moved to mine, taking the shard away and placing it into the sink. Dupec smirked. He charged by her and into the hallway, his hurried steps fading in the distance.
“I am sorry,” she managed to utter once we were certain he was gone.
I angrily pushed away from the sink and walked to my clothes. I stepped into my pants as she begged for my forgiveness.
“Don’t,” I said.
“Olivia, please. You have to understand-”
“Don’t,” I cried out.
She opened her mouth to speak but paused as the sound of doors opening reached us. We listened to the stampeding sound of soldiers from various floors, exiting rooms at once throughout the building. We were quiet, watching as two rushed past. My curiosity piqued. When it seemed as though our floor was clear, I gathered what remained of my belongings and charged past Diana.
“Olivia, listen to me,” she pleaded, tears thick in her throat. “I could not stop him. Even if I said no, you think it would have stopped him?”
I turned to face her. “I can deal with him coming for me if that was his will but you gave me to him, Diana. You delivered me into his arms.”
I continued forward into the flat with Diana close on my trail.
“You were already recruited; you just did not know it.”
“What is your point?”
“I was doing you a favor.”
“Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare!” I walked to the window, looking down into the lanes as I wrapped my bodyrag tightly around my sliced open hand. I carefully pulled my shirt over my head. I wondered what was happening. Soldiers were loading into transport cars and departing their posts.
“Olivia, listen. He was going to take you away. It was either SOTA compound or stay here with me...take my place.”
I turned. “This was not done for me. Maybe I could forgive you if it were. You did not want to lose the money. You did it so that you would not lose money. No dashii’s, no obi red, no blackberries!”
She opened her mouth to speak but no words formed. I dressed quickly. I gathered my meager belongings, what I could fit into my bag. I tossed it on my shoulder and rushed across the room. I knelt forward, prying the floorboard free with my good hand and removed the dashii’s hidden beneath.
“Olivia, *lil'eail.” Her voice was soft, innocent but I was beyond making amends.
I counted out two months of my portion of the tax fee and extended it to her. She shook her head no.
“Take it.”
“I cannot. I do not want it.”
“You do, that is the problem.” I passed her and tossed it onto her bed. “I will suggest you find someplace safe to hide before Dupec returns.”
I pulled my hat down firm on my head and adjusted the bag on my shoulder as I headed to the door. The sound of Diana’s sorrow filled the room. I paused, my hand on the knob. I swallowed my emotions and moved ahead, exiting the door and leaving her selfish despair behind.
These days, writers need to grab the reader on the first page. Firsts is a new segment that will be featured on ChickLitGurrl: high on LATTES & WRITING [website] and/or All the Blog's a Page [website]. With Firsts, authors can send to me the first page of their novel and the following information:
Book cover
Book description (what we'd read on the back cover of your novel
Author pic
Short author bio (what we might read on the back cover of your novel or the author page within your novel)
I will schedule the feature on one of the above sites and send out alerts on the feature's post on various social media outlets.
What I envision Firsts to be is that sneak peek into a novel that often moves us to take a book to the counter of a bookstore and buy it.
If you'd like to have your first promoted on CLG or AtBaP, e-mail me.
L. Anne Carrington is a writer whose previous work has covered topics from fiction to news stories, human interest features, and entertainment reviews. A decedent of silent film star Rubye De Remer and criminal justice reporter/detective magazine article writer/author James G. Baldwin, she wrote The Wrestling Babe Internet column for seven years, is a former music reviewer for Indie Music Stop, and pens several other works which appears in both print and Web media. One of her recent freelance articles, An Overview of Causes of Hearing Loss and Deafness, was licensed by Internet Broadcasting, the leading provider of Web sites, content and advertising revenue solutions to the largest and most successful media companies.
One of Ms. Carrington’s current projects is multitasking as weblog manager, weekly columnist/entertainment reporter, and acting as one of the literary agents on the website Authors On Show, giving encouragement to unpublished authors. Since its May 2010 launch, the website been viewed in more than 70 countries around the world, including publishers such as Penguin Books and major literary agents.
Ms. Carrington resides in the Pittsburgh, PA area, where she continues to write and appeared as a guest blogger for sites such as Slush Pile Reader and Paparazzi Publishing. Plans to host a show on BlogTalkRadio and developing a jewelry line based on her novel are underway for the near future. A nominee for the 2010 USA Network Characters Unite Awards, she was named a local division finalist in the cable television network's annual event.
Brett and Karen come from two separate worlds with one common interest that brought them together - wrestling.
Brett Kerrigan is a smaller than average cruiserweight wrestler who loves to entertain the crowds, giving it all for his fans throughout the world. In spite of his size, Brett proves he can be as strong, quick and fierce as his larger competitors. Away from the spotlight, he struggles with being taken seriously as a wrestler, backstabbing co-workers, and power hungry management.
Pittsburgh-based sports journalist Karen Montgomery has followed wrestling since her teens. An acclaimed article printed one year earlier won a prestigious sports press award, and, when several attempts to arrange a personal interview with Brett are thwarted, she almost gives up attempting to meet her idol without the help of her editor, Greg Sullivan. One fateful night after a wrestling event, Karen has an unexpected encounter with Brett in a hotel lounge - ending in getting her sought-after interview with him.
Click the cover above to order your copy of THE CRUISERWEIGHT today!
A GOOD Book
What is your definition of a "good book"?
A good book not only has to be well written without grammatical or spelling errors, but also should have a good plot, an original story line, great characters, an eye for detail, and the classic rule of 'show, not just tell.'
How does your latest literary offering qualify as that “good book”?
I feel that my book meets the majority of the latter descriptions, and wanted to create a novel with something that hasn't been already overdone (e.g. vampire and fantasy stories). There's always an untapped reading audience out there looking for something new that will stand out and they want to read. The first four chapters, in my opinion, should be able to hook in your reader. If they don't, chances are the rest of the book will remain unread.
Excerpt
Getting psyched was Brett's specialty, the kind of madness he needed for the championship. Tonight, he was wrestling Big Mac, one of the strongest contenders, and needed to be ready.
He was completing three hundred push-ups when the small locker room’s battered door swung open. “Five minutes, Kerrigan,” one of the assistants said. “You’re on in five.”
“Yeah!” Brett grunted from the floor on toes and fingers. “Thanks, Randy.”
The door slammed. He counted out three more pushups, “98…99…100!” He bounced to his feet. One of the smallest cruiserweights, Brett established a reputation as the fastest wrestling superstar.
When his entrance music played, Brett sprinted with confidence past an excited crowd, his heart racing, and ready to face the battle which lay ahead of him. The fans were on their feet, jeers ringing through the building as lights shone on his undersized physique.
The following are topics to be covered on All the Blog's a Page [website] during 2011. Author features will be bi-monthly, with some features focusing on genres and subject matter and other features focusing on discussion pertaining to writing.
I'm currently finalizing authors for January; however, if you would like consideration in being featured for another month in 2011, please e-mail me!
JANUARY 2011
TOPIC: Defining the "Good Book"
MARCH 2011
TOPIC: Death and Writing
MAY 2011
TOPIC: Ingredients to Making a Great Character
Creativity seems to course through the veins of Jennifer Coissiere. Words has always been a part of her world; from she was young creating worlds for the characters she drew on paper to the poetry she wrote to express her unspoken feelings and emotions. Besides being a writer, Jennifer creates handmade beaded gems. She is also a wife, mother, and a student. Once she’s gotten all those things out of her system, like she really ever could, she does the next best thing, grab a book and read. There’s no telling what other things she will pull out of her bag of tricks, you need to write her name down and be open minded for any and everything.
Rachelle Martin's mother died Mother's Day, when Rachelle was only 15. To make matters worse Rachelle was in church singing her mother's favorite song. Now, at age 30, she still has not gotten over the loss of her mother. She feels it is her job to mother and protect twin brother, Raheem. However, when her dad asks her to sing as a Christmas present to him, she is transformed. She becomes the focus of many as she focuses on the here and now. Her loved ones and the ones she is unsure of witness her transformation. She goes from a perceived ugly duckling to a beautiful swan. Her transformation changes the lives of others, making them realize what they want in life. Slowly but surely, they will all begin, Crossing Over.
Can Rachelle change enough to sing, or will her voice be buried forever?
Click the cover above to order your copy of CROSSING OVER today!
Check out the trailer for Crossing Over!
What three books have inspired you as a writer and why?
Complete Stories and Poems of Edgar Allan Poe… I remember when my class read "The Tell-tale Heart"; I was intrigued and afraid all at the same time. Then I realized how twisted Poe was. That’s why I loved his writings. I could write in such an obscured manner and people would turn my poetry and stories into whatever they saw in their mind. The main thing was they are enjoying my works as I enjoy Poe’s masterpieces.
How to Win Friends and Influence Other People by Dale Carnegie… someone told me to read this book because they believed I needed an attitude adjustment. I used the information I learned in that book to better develop my characters. Of course I learned how to interact with others better, but I learned how to develop relatable characters. I still have the copy I bought over 13 years ago.
My last answer will sound so cliché, but it’s the truth. The Bible! Where else can a person come across so many different writing styles and genres? There is poetic prose and stanzas, biographies, gospels (some of my favorite gospel songs are based on Bible verses), prayers, letters, parables, etc. A person can truly learn how to tell a story that will live through the ages by reading the Bible. It’s one book I will never get tried of exploring. I always find something new I missed the last time. The Bible is a book with meaning(s). I want the stories that I write to be of importance, not just words on the page.
Excerpt
Crossing Over by Jennifer Coissiere
Chapter Eight
Dawn looked around, making sure everything was in its place, fluffing the pillows on the couch one more time. “They’ll be here any minute,” she announced. “We promised Raheem we’d give Leigh a better chance than we did before, so let’s do our best.” She would try to fake it as much as she could, but the truth of the matter was, she didn’t want to get to know Leigh any better. Having Leigh in her space was overwhelming.
Dawn had watched how Raheem follow her as she went from table to table doing her job that night at DeMali’s. His eyes didn’t leave her presence much while they were eating and fellowshipping with each other. Even though Dawn hadn’t worked that hard to get him to notice her, with Leigh now taking all his time and attention Raheem would never realize the passion she had growing inside her for him. The desire was at times over bearing and she hadn’t a clue why. He’d never shown her any signs of being interested in her other than being a friend to her through association with Rachelle.
The only other time they came close to having anything, Raheem didn’t seem to remember. However, Dawn still recalled the way she felt when she awoke beside Raheem. She would never forget the night they had shared. She only hoped Raheem would one day recall the connection they had.
A set of quick loud knocks on the door signaled they had arrived. Each person put on a welcoming smile.
Kenyon said, “If no one else is going to open it, I will,” walking over to the door.
“Hey, y’all come on in. I hope you’re hungry,” Kenyon said to the couple. Turning back to everyone already in the apartment, he said, “You remember Leigh right?”
Rachelle was the first to acknowledge Leigh. Draping an arm around both Leigh’s and Raheem’s shoulder, she led them into the apartment.
“Leigh, welcome to our little get together. Make yourself at home. I want to apologize for not giving you a fair chance before.” Rachelle, being her typical self, held a welcoming smile that only she could pull off. Whatever she was thinking, no one could tell because she had kept her face neutral from all emotions except for that dutiful smile.
She looked at Raheem; he didn’t say a word. He let Leigh decide for herself what to believe. Maybe she would be able to let her guard down and make new friends.
“No sweat. I understand.”
“Let’s not dwell anymore than needs be on the past. Let’s eat, I’m starved,” Dawn said.
She and Raheem locked eyes for a quick moment, but they broke it almost immediately.
“Something smells wonderful,” said Leigh.
“Kenyon will have to take all the credit for this. Usually when we all get together like this, we all chip in and cook or bake something, but not tonight.”
If his pride would let him, he would have been blushing, but he just waved his hand at Dawn trying to get her to be quiet.
Rachelle whispered in Dawn’s ears, “Stop embarrassing him in front of company.”
“Girl, please this is what he lives for, attention from a woman.”
“So Leigh, do you have any family here in Georgia?” asked Zion.
“I don’t have any family, anywhere.”
Eyes bore into her from all sides; everyone had family somewhere. Raheem came to her rescue.
“She doesn’t know any of her family. She grew up in a group home.”
“Oh ok. Well what do you do for fun?” Rachelle asked.
“I uh, um…go to the clubs and drink,” she said nonchalantly.
The response she got was not surprising. It was pure silence. Raheem placed a reassuring hand on the center of her back. Turning she smiled at him. The tension he felt drained from his body, slowly. There was a possibility they all could be friends.
The acceptance of Leigh into their friendship circle was not the only thing grating on his nerves. He was still trying to figure out how did he gone from hanging out, drinking with Leigh to ending up in bed with Dawn.
The morning she woke up neither said a word. She got dress and left the hotel room. All he knew was they were both naked and nothing else.
“Ok let’s try something different to stay positive and not dampen a potentially wonderful evening. Maybe you should ask us questions instead,” Rachelle suggested.
“Alright, Kenyon the first question is for you. What did you cook?”
Laughter erupted.
“Amarillo arroz con pollo, y épinards à la crème.”
“Are you Spanish?”
Dawn playfully slapped him in the back of his head.
“What’s that for?” he asked as innocent as he could.
“You know we don’t know what that is. And no he isn’t anything close to a Latino.”
“How you know I’m not a little Latino? You know everyone is always claiming to be one-quarter Cherokee Indian. I went a different route. Any way we are having yellow rice and chicken with creamed spinach.”
“Man, you need to let that go. You going to have Leigh thinking we are all crazy, but that’s an honor you can have all alone,” Zion said.
“Leigh, you get to sit at the head of the table across from Zion. Everyone else pick your seat, they’re our guests, so they get to sit at the heads of the table, to be made to feel honored,” said Kenyon.
“Thanks, I could have sat at one of the other seats,” said Leigh. “I don’t mind really.”
“It’s our way. We do it this way. Anytime anyone comes over especially for the first time, we make sure they feel welcomed and special by the time they leave.”
“Consider it a good deed,” said Dawn.
“Before we take our seats, if we can join hands, and bless the food,” Rachelle said. “Dawn since you’re the hostess, if you don’t mind could you do the honor, please?”
Reluctantly, Leigh placed her hands in Dawn’s and Raheem’s. Raheem squeezed her hand, trying to calm the anxiety she was obviously feeling.
“Almighty father, I say thank you for this day, for the chef, and a time to fellowship with old friends and new friends. I ask for you to allow the food we are about to take part of, to do as they should, in nourishing our bodies, our minds and our spirit, in the name of your son, Jesus Christ, amen. Now let’s eat.”
“Amen,” said the others, everyone except Leigh.
“How long have you all known each other?” Leigh asked.
“We all met at different times, but for the most part we grew up together,” said Zion.
“So were you all born in Georgia or did you migrate here later on?”
Pointing to his sister and back to himself, Raheem answered, “We were born and grown right here.”
“Yes, I’m a real Southern Belle,” Rachelle said. Everyone else laughed except for Zion. In his eyes she really was a southern bell.
“I’ll go next,” said Dawn. “I’m not from here. I was born in Salisbury, North Carolina. I moved her to live with my aunt Rebecca.”
“Did something happen to your parents?”
“No, heavens no,” she answered startled at the thought. Whenever she prayed, it was always for the safe return of her parents. “My parents are missionaries, and my aunt didn’t think it was wise for me to be growing up in a foreign country. So I ended up here. No we didn’t attend the same school, but we did and still do worship at the same church.”
“Wow, have you gone to visit them? Have they been back?” Leigh asked very curious to know more.
“You know they come back every couple of years, mainly for important occasions. It’s been a while because I didn’t go to college, so I didn’t have another graduation for them to come to. I guess their next big visit it will be when I get married. Now a secret that many don’t know, I am afraid to fly, so no I haven’t gone to see them in the Philippines as yet. ”
“Kenyon, you can go before me,” said Zion.
“Alright, I grew up with the twins. Our parents are related.”
Shock appeared on Dawn’s face. She’d known them for many years and they never disclosed that bit of information.
Kenyon continued. “It’s always been so simple to tell people we’re best friends because even though we’re really cousins, I’ve felt more like their brother. I was born here as well.”
Finally coming out of her shock, Dawn asked the question bubbling within her, “Did you guys forget to tell me this little bit of information? If Mr. Dwight is your uncle, why do you call him Mr. D instead of Uncle D?”
“I don’t know. What does it matter, I’m still respectful when I speak to him. By now you should be calling him Uncle D you’ve been around long enough.”
“We’ll talk about it later, OK,” Rachelle reassured.
“Last but not least, Zion, spill it. Can you top these guys?” asked Raheem.
“I’m a preacher’s son. We didn’t move around a lot as far as our home goes, but it took sometime before my father finally found the location where we’re at now. It had to be right, or else he would not settle for it. I’m from Georgia as well, but a city two hours from here.”
“Well you are an eclectic bunch. I have one other silly question, and it’s for you, Dawn.” Everyone turned to look at Leigh while she in turn focused her attention on Dawn.
“Well go ahead. I have nothing to hide. What do you want to know?”
“Your um, thing that’s on your head is beautiful. I remember at the restaurant seeing you with one on and admiring it at that time as well. Any way my question for you is do you always have your hair covered and what are you hiding underneath it?”
Dawn had been wearing those loc caps for so long, everyone was interested in her answer. She had their undivided attention. She on the other hand was contemplating how she wanted to answer the question. It was moments before she said she had nothing to hide, but Leigh proved her wrong. There she was eating her words, and truly not understanding why. What was there for her to hide; they’d either love it or hate it, but they would have to accept it.
She was hiding the person she’d become from them and it was time to let them in on the rest of her that they were unaware of. Rather than answering with words, Dawn slowly pulled off her loc cap, revealing what she’s been hiding for some time. When the cap came off, completely, hanging from her head was the most beautiful, well-groomed locs touching her shoulders.
“Dawn, you look gorgeous. Why have you hidden this from us all this time?” asked Rachelle.
