Check out our latest Writing in the Modern Age guest article here.

Marie Lavender (host): You've been a working actress for many years. How has writing fit into your life, or how did you transition to writing?

 

Emilia Ares: Funnily enough, I began writing while on one of my sets. I was doing a film and sometimes we have to wait for hours in between takes. In those situations, it’s best to do something to take your mind off the scene in order to keep the acting fresh and the reactions surprising. Reading is a great go-to, but there had been this story and these characters – Oliver and Mina ­– who were living in my head and nagging at my brain. I just had to get them on paper, so to speak. I wrote a chapter of their story into my notes on my iPhone and I also jotted down what else would probably happen later on in the story. When I got back to town, I wanted to show it to my younger sister, Sofia, who was reading a lot of YA at the time and ended up becoming an English major. She’s the one who encouraged me to keep writing and turn it into a book. She said she loved it and couldn’t wait for more. I don’t think Love and Other Sins would have existed without her encouragement.

 

Marie: What have you learned about storytelling from TV projects you've acted in like American Horror Story and Bosch?

Emilia: I’ve learned a ton about storytelling from the TV and film projects I’ve acted in, especially the importance of a strong emotional connection with my characters. Creating a backstory for my characters on and off the screen was vital. More times than not, my character’s backstory was not provided to me either because the project was high profile and the full script was kept under wraps or because I was playing a guest star whose history was not explicitly discussed or mentioned in the script itself. So, I’d have to invent the backstory.

 

That process is very similar to writing characters in a book. I used my knowledge of how the character was described in the breakdown that was provided during the casting process including any traits, qualities, strengths, weaknesses, quirks. I would then make an educated guess about what this person ultimately wants/needs from life, taking into consideration the character arc in the scene/overall story to create a reasonable history for them. In the case of American Horror Story, I would ask myself where does Princess Anastasia Romanova come from? What makes her tick? What life events shaped her? Empowered her? Scarred her? What are her secrets? And how do those things effect how she walks, talks, speaks, et cetera? The backstory is usually never discussed, but always exists in the thoughts of these characters, which ultimately informs their actions. The more specific the backstory, the richer, what actor’s call 'the life' of the character is.

 

This was great practice for when it came time to create Oliver and Mina’s backstories. I would just pretend they were characters I was going to play. I entered their minds the way I would when I played my characters on set. This might be a different approach than most traditional writers and it’s most likely why I wrote in first person. I was documenting the moments as if they were happening to me in real time. Later, I rewrote the novel into past tense to give the storytelling and pacing more flexibility.

 

Marie: Why was it important for you to write young people who are independent and self-reliant, not dependent on parental support to go after their goals?

 

Emilia: I honestly didn’t set out with the goal to write independent and self-reliant characters. I just wanted them to be interesting and, as it turns out, self-reliant people interest me. But I’m glad Oliver and Mina developed into the people they became because there are plenty of teenagers out there who are on their own and could use someone like Oliver to identify with.

 

Mina is actually very reliant on her mother for moral support when we first meet her. However, this novel begins during the part of her life when she starts to break free from that support and she ventures off to discover who she is and what she wants. She will have many hardships ahead. We get to follow her down that tumultuous road and witness her slay the dragons or succumb. Oliver, on the other hand, built himself up from the most terrible circumstances and found his own silver lining. He doesn’t have any family. He’s alone, therefore he’s independent out of necessity, not choice. I hope his story is inspirational to the youth who feel hopeless.

 

Marie: How did your own young adulthood prepare you to write this book?

 

Emilia: My time as a teenager was as dramatic and angsty as anyone else’s. Everyday there was drama, rumors, gossip, bullying. No matter how hard I tried to keep my head down, it felt as though it was inescapable. When I talked to my adult friends about their high school experiences, I came to understand that we all felt that way. You know, it’s funny ... as trivial as everything seems now, in the grand scheme of things some of those moments really did matter and did shape me into who I am today. The most painful moments became my biggest life lessons. I knew what I had to do to never feel that way again. I learned who I had to stay away from and who I had to gravitate toward. It wasn’t all bad, though; I had some great friends to get me through the tough parts. Those were the parts that were most similar to my life. Nyah was written based on a combination of a few of my friends and my sister. Lily was inspired by my mom.

 

Marie: What books and authors inspired you in your writing?

 

Emilia: The Stranger by Albert Camus because it challenged everything I ever knew or thought I knew about the hero of a story and made me feel so uncomfortable reading it.

 

Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoevsky, not only for the revelation this novel brought to literature but also for the story behind writing it. Dostoevsky didn't write it because he wanted to, he wrote it out of necessity. He wrote what he knew, the conditions and ramifications of a sick, drunk, impoverished Russia.

 

The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins because by the time 2008 rolled around, so much had already been written and said about a potential post-apocalyptic nation but somehow, Collins was able to put forth a fresh take on dystopia. I admire that very much. There is always more room for your voice, your perspective, your story.

 

Things Fall Apart by Chinua Achebe because, again, it was very critically controversial. People didn't know how to feel about it. On the one hand, Achebe ended up writing it in English, the language of colonialism which caused disagreement amongst many African critics in regards to the ultimate message of the novel. On the other hand, this was a novel that went against most of what was written about African culture at the time. It showed European colonialism from a different perspective portraying Igbo life from the point of view of an African man, a rich and sophisticated culture with a deep history, language, and beliefs.

 

But some of the first books and authors who inspired my love for storytelling were The Chronicles of Narnia by C.S. Lewis, Speak by Laurie Halse Anderson, The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold, and Bridge to Terabithia by Katherine Paterson.

 

Marie: Great! It was such a pleasure to have you here today.

 

Emilia: For myself as well. Thank you for inviting me!

 

Marie: Of course!

Check out our latest Writing in the Modern Age guest article here.

My guest today is author Autumn Bardot. Hello! Welcome to Writing in the Modern Age! It’s such a pleasure to have you here. 

 
It's my pleasure! 

Can you tell us a little bit about your latest book? When did it come out? Where can we get it?






Nice!

Do you have any favorite authors yourself, Autumn?


That's quite a range!

So, do you write in a specific place? Time of day?


True enough.

Are there any words you'd like to impart to fellow writers? Any advice?


Such helpful tips!

Thank you so much for stopping by to visit us here today at Writing in the Modern Age. It was wonderful having you!  :)

Readers, here is the blurb for Legends of Lust.


Named a Top 10 Erotica & Romance Book for Fall 2018 by Publishers Weekly

Who knew the ancient world could be so downright . . . arousing?

Like uncovering a sexy diamond in the rough, Legends of Lust reveals the fiery passions lying dormant behind your favorite mythological stories. This adults-only, debut collection of fourteen steamy, erotic short stories by Autumn Bardot is an explosion of sexy, nasty, and romantic retellings that will take your love of myths to a whole new level.

Odysseus, a mere man, becomes a god-like master of the tease in the eyes of the sex-starved and eternally lustful goddess Calypso. The tale of Amazonian queen Hippolyta and Theseus gives "love at first sight" a whole new meaning that will enthrall your senses. The encounter between Vishvamitra and Menaka takes them to explosive new levels of bodily nirvana. And Gilgamesh, the mighty god-king, sends temple prostitute Shamhat to tame a wild man, but instead he teaches her something about man's most primal instincts . . . and she is not left wanting.

Run wild in your personal Elysian fields of pleasure with this spicy, irreverent peek into the sensual world of our most beloved gods, heroes, fairies, and shape shifters from every corner of the earth.

Purchase Links:

 

Universal Reader Link: https://books2read.com/u/mdWz0E

Publisher: http://cleispress.com/book/2762/legends-of-lust-erotic-myths-from-around-the-world/

Here are some teasers from the book.







Sizzling...so what are people saying about this book?








Need more of a nibble? Cleis Press made an amazing promotional video for Legends of Lust.  


Want a bigger bite? Find out which mythical lover you are most like. Take the sexy, quick quiz.


Awesome...add this collection to your Goodreads bookshelf, readers!
 
The book sounds like a great read! We'll be sure to check out this erotic mythology collection!

Get it now!

Author Bio

Facebook:  https://www.facebook.com/james.glass.94  
 
Autumn's Books:

My guest today is DJ Swykert. Hello, DJ! Welcome back to Writing in the Modern Age! It’s such a pleasure to have you here again.

Can you tell us a little bit about your latest book? When did it come out? Where can we get it?
  

My new book, The Death of Anyone, introduces readers to a DNA search technique not in common use here in the U.S., Familial DNA. A lot will be written on this subject as the real life trial of Lonnie David Franklin, The Grim Sleeper, unfolds in California this year. The book also introduces a new character for me, a female homicide detective. It's not the first time I've written from a female POV, but she's the first in this role. I’m hoping the book will appeal to an even broader audience than Children of the Enemy, or Alpha Wolves. There is a romance along with the mystery in the plot and some real science.

The Death of Anyone was released by Melange Books in Minneapolis the end of February. It’s available at: Melange Books, Lulu, Amazon, and Bookwire.

Is there anything that prompted your latest book? Something that inspired you?

I first heard about Familial DNA Searches while working as a 911 operator in 2006. It came up in a conversation with officers. I thought at the time it would make an interesting premise for a book. I began writing the mystery some three years later after leaving the department. I had just finished editing a first draft of The Death of Anyone in the summer 2010 when news of The Grim Sleeper’s capture in Los Angeles was released. I read with interest all the information pouring out of L.A. regarding the investigation and the problems confronting prosecutors. All of which are explored in The Death of Anyone.
 
This sounds fascinating!

So, when did you know you wanted to write? Or has it always been a pastime of yours?

I don’t know if I ever actually 'decided' to be a writer. I remember the first thing I wrote, a bad poem to a pretty girl, I was a teenager, and Tennyson’s "Flower in the Crannied Wall" gave me the idea to try my hand at poetry. I still recite Tennyson’s poem. I think my desire to try writing novels came from reading them, in particular Hemingway and Fitzgerald, and when I was younger, Mark Twain. I simply enjoyed the storytelling, and think I inherited a little storytelling ability from my grandfather, who was really good at spinning a tale. 

My grandmother did the same thing.  LOL. 

Do you have any favorite authors?

I’ve already kind of answered this; Tennyson, Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Mark Twain. You can add Byron, Auden, Chekhov and Annie Proulx to the list. Oh, hell, there’s a host of great writers, my list could go on for pages. But these always have stuck in my head. 

I know what you mean.  I have WAY too many to count.  

So, do you write in a specific place? Time of day?

Currently, I write mornings on a desk in the garret, as my girlfriend calls it, on the third floor of our townhouse. But I’ve written just about anywhere I can find something to write with, even on a bunk in the Houghton County Jail, er… that was just once, for a short while on a traffic violation. 

Are there any words you'd like to impart to fellow writers? Any advice?

Keep typing, and submitting. I believe in the old Hindu saying: Given enough time, coincidence is inevitable. There is a measure of coincidence in finding a home for your writing. You have to have skill, a good story, but also some luck. You can improve your odds by applying The Law of Large Numbers, which allows prey species to survive by reproducing in large numbers. Your writing can survive in the same way, get it out there, and keep putting it out there. Be productive. And keep your fingers crossed.

Good advice. 

So, readers, here is the the blurb for The Death of Anyone.

Detroit homicide Detective Bonnie Benham has been transferred from narcotics for using more than arresting and is working the case of the killer of adolescent girls. CSI collects DNA evidence from the scene of the latest victim, which has not been detected on the other victims. But no suspect turns up in the FBI database. Due to the notoriety of the crimes a task force is put together with Bonnie as the lead detective, and she implores the D.A. to authorize an as yet unapproved type of a DNA Search in an effort to identify the killer. Homicide Detective Neil Jensen, with his own history of drug and alcohol problems, understands Bonnie’s frailty and the two detectives become inseparable as they track this killer of children.

Here's an excerpt from The Death of Anyone. 

Benham arrived first, no sign of Russo or Jensen. She got a table and told the maitre de to send them over when they arrived, and that there would be a third party, a Detective Lagrow. As he seated Benham, the maitre de informed her, “The show starts at about 12:30 pm. We have a couple of new dancers."

Benham screwed up her nose, gave him a curious eye. “Dancers?”

The maitre de nodded. “Yes, belly dancers. We have a new one I’m sure your friends will appreciate. She’s very good-young, friendly.”

Benham just shook her head. ”I’m sure they will,” she said as she sat.

“Can I get you something to drink?”

Whoa, the brake in her head told her. You know you, you know your history. You know what a slip can do to you. Doctors, psychologists, treatment, rehab, counselors, AA, each and every one of them flashed across her head as her mind absorbed the offer. “Just a coke, or, actually, would you just bring me a black coffee.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Benham sipped her coffee and looked through her brief notes of the case. They were very brief, there was little to put in them. A young girl, perhaps ten, dead, strangled, almost for certain assaulted, lying in an alley for a few hours. And it had only been a few hours—Pierangeli seemed pretty sure she hadn’t been there long. She was found at around nine-thirty am, so she died maybe around eight am. She lay there, choked, defiled, beautiful, and dead, and nobody was looking for her. She had to have been taken pretty early this morning, so it’s been about five hours she’s been gone, and nobody loves her enough to miss her. Benham could feel the anger rising from within, from the source where feelings come from, from deeper but inclusive of the stomach, from the birthplace of emotion.

A hand touched her shoulder and startled her. “Me and Jensen are here, bring on the dancing girls,” Dean Russo bellowed, joyous almost, and that irritated Bonnie a little. There was nothing to be happy about this day.

“You’ll get your wish. The belly dancers will be here in a few,” Benham said, with a bit of obvious disdain that Russo picked up on.

“You picked the place.”

“Yeah, I know,” Bonnie answered, feeling a little sorry now she sounded so disapproving. “Yeah, I picked it. Didn’t think about belly dancers, but, hey, we’re here, and I love pastitio, and they have the best. Sorry if I sound pissy, it’s only because I am. Once you see the girl, you won’t be dancing in the street either.”

Russo quit laughing. “How long you been in homicide, Benham?”

Bonnie could see she rubbed something, “A couple of months.”

“You were in narcotics?”

“Yeah, I was in narcotics. I was in it and it—I was narcotic.”

There was a pause. Jensen looked across at Russo, glared a little, trying to shut him up with a look. And out of the corner of his eye let Bonnie know he saw her, too. He wanted her to keep this cool.

But it was a little late, and Bonnie was a bit volatile. “You know fucking well I was in narcotics. And you fucking know why I’m in homicide. I got myself transferred out for becoming more narcotic than narc. Quit beating around the bush. What’s your point?”

Universal Reader Link:  https://books2read.com/u/4A52gA

 

Author Bio
 

I’m a blue collar person from Detroit. I’ve worked as a truck driver,dispatcher, logistics analyst, operations manager, and ten years as a 911operator, which was the very best job of them all. I write stories like you’d watch a movie and put them down on paper. I have written in different genres; crime, romance, literary and The Death of Anyone, which is a
mystery/suspense story with romance and science in it. 

The last sentence in my writing bio is always: He is a wolf expert. I am not a biologist. I raised two arctic hybrids, had them for eleven years, and have written two books in which the wolves join the other protagonists. 

I have been fortunate enough to have my writing appear in: The Tampa Review, Monarch Review, Sand Canyon Review, Zodiac Review, Scissors and Spackle, Spittoon, BarbaricYawp and BULL. The other books I have written are Children of the Enemy, a novel from Cambridge Books, and Alpha Wolves, a novel by Noble Publishing.

Links:

Blog: www.magicmasterminds.com

Facebook:  http://www.facebook.com/david.swykert?ref=ts&fref=ts

LinkedIn:  http://www.linkedin.com/profile/view?id=193494247

Other Links:  http://www.gypsyartshow.com/2013/03/the-death-of-anyone-by-dj-swykert.html

http://www.omnimysterynews.com/2013/01/please-welcome-novelist-dj-swykert.html

 

Check out our latest Writing in the Modern Age blog article here.

My guest today is Steve Christie. Hello, Steve! Welcome to Writing in the Modern Age! It’s such a pleasure to have you here.

Can you tell us a little bit about your latest book? When did it come out? Where can we get it?
  

It's a crime thriller titled Good Deed. It was published at the end of last year. It introduces DI Ronnie Buchanan, an intelligent and astute man with a wry sense of humour. The story starts with a normal girl who made a bad choice, a stranger doing a good deed which he will regret and two inept, opportunistic thieves who steal something which they are ill equipped to handle. Add an upset crime lord, his unscrupulous fixer Vince, then sit back as the mind games begin, the twists unfold and enjoy a breathless tour around Scotland as DI Buchanan tries to solve the case.

It's available as an eBook on Kindle and Kobo and on paperback from Amazon. It is also available at The Book Depository, Ringwood Publishing and from all good UK Bookshops.

Is there anything that prompted your latest book? Something that inspired you?

The old adage "no good deed goes unpunished". Every now and again you'll either pick up the newspaper or watch the news and see some story where some Good Samaritan helps someone out of a sticky situation only for it to come back and, pardon the phrase, bite them on the arse.

LOL.  So, when did you know you wanted to write? Or has it always been a pastime of yours?

I've always fancied giving it a go. I used to write short stories for my kids when they were younger.  They seemed to enjoy them and now that they've grown up a bit, I thought I'd get my teeth stuck into something a bit more substantial.  So I wrote Good Deed, my first novel.

Do you have any favorite authors? 

Loads. Lee Child, Patricia Cornwell, Ian Rankin. I've recently been getting into George R.R. Martin. I'm currently reading through his A Song of Ice and Fire series.

Do you write in a specific place? Time of day?

I work long hours, I seldom get home before eight p.m. each night, so I usually don't get around to my writing until about 10 p.m. Once my kids are settled down Ill put on some music, on my iPod of course, I don't want to waken any one up! Then I'll usually write for maybe about two or three hours. This, of course, means that I end up going to work the following morning looking like a crack addict! LOL.

*Laughs.* Oh, yes, I'm familiar with burning the midnight oil for a story.  

Are there any words you'd like to impart to fellow writers, Steve? Any advice?

Stick at the writing and learn to accept rejection and criticism. It comes with the territory.

Good advice.  So, inquiring minds want to know.  What are you currently working on?

I'm writing my second DI Buchanan novel Cold Shot. It's a dark tale of revenge set during a particularly nasty winter in Aberdeen.

Here is the blurb for Good Deed.

Good Deed is a fast paced crime novel that captures the reader from beginning to end.

Described by one reviewer as “Christopher Brookmyre on speed, with more thrills and less farce”, the gripping story of Good Deed rattles along relentlessly, leaving the reader breathless but enthralled. Good Deed introduces a new Scottish detective hero, DI Ronnie Buchanan, who is certain to quickly attract a legion of fans.

The events crammed into Good Deed take Buchanan from his base in Aberdeen on a frantic journey around all the major Scottish cities as his increasingly deadly pursuit of a mysterious criminal master mind known only as Vince comes to a breath-taking climax back in Aberdeen.

The pace of Good Deed is exceptional and unremitting. It is the kind of book that demands to be read in one sitting, but most readers will be so breathless as the saga unfolds without pause that they will need occasional rests before eagerly returning for more.

Here's an excerpt from Good Deed.

Lucy Kennedy pulled off the motorway following the road signs to the Road Chef restaurant just outside Dundee.

It was notoriously expensive but she had no choice, she was exhausted and in need of some caffeine.

She had made good time despite the earlier mishap with the flat tyre but thanks to a helpful stranger shed been back on the road in about ten minutes.

As she entered the restaurant, dazed from the long drive she failed to notice Mark and Liam sitting outside in their parked car but they noticed Lucy leaving hers and forgetting to lock up.

“Here we go,” said Liam. 

Mark and Liam were two habitual criminals who prowled the country seeking victims at roadside restaurants and other such places, they never failed to be amazed by the amount of road users who shattered from a long drive and in need of a coffee would stumble into these restaurants leaving their cars unlocked making their job so much more easier.

Once they had left their vehicle and entered the restaurant, Liam would pull alongside in his car giving Mark cover to rummage through the car to see what bounty awaited them.

On this particular day they struck gold.   

“Holy shit!” said Mark as he unzipped the tartan holdall lying in the back seat. What he'd found were two large packages of white powder well wrapped up in cling film, he knew they must contain a drug of some sort, smack, speed or coke it didn't really matter because judging by the quantity it would be worth a whole load of cash on the street. He took the packages out of the bag, zipped it back up and jumped into Liam's car “wait ' till you see what I've got here buddy” he showed Liam what he'd found.

“Check this, man, it's got to be worth a small fortune.”

“Jesus,” said Liam. “What’s a lassie like her doing carting all that shit about on her own?”

“No idea but it's our shit now, let's go.”

They pulled out of the car park, re-joined the motorway and drove off under the grey, cloud covered sky towards the centre of Dundee.

Lucy, totally unaware of what had just happened, carried her overpriced espresso to the nearest table, sat down and peeled open the small stick shaped packets of brown sugar, poured them into her cup and began to stir her coffee for an inordinate amount of time. She had things preying on her mind some bugging her more than others the main thing of course being how the hell she had gotten herself involved as a drug courier. It had started off small time, a block of weed here and there. Her flat mate Julie had convinced her it was easy money and right enough it did help supplement her meagre university grant, but then she'd got greedy, she took on bigger and bigger amounts, and now four kilos of coke.

She reminisced on how it had all started. It was a typical student's night out, a meal at the local curry house, followed by a pub crawl round Newington. They were a party of six, a strange mix of people, Lucy, her flatmate Julie, Deborah, a mature student big on size and personality, Joe and Eric two gay guys who shared a flat on the floor below and Eric, the cause of all Lucy's troubles.

Eric was a strange guy, the cool student that no one really knew much about, Jim Morrison reincarnated. He picked up the tab for everything, the meal, the drinks, even the taxi home.

She remembered thinking, Jesus this guy must have money coming out his ass, only later on that night back at her flat did she find out where this money came from.

“I deliver a few packages,” he told her as he skinned up a joint on one of Lucy's album covers, one of her favourites. “It’s easy money,” he said. "I could fix you up with the main man if you like".

And that was it, Lucy was in. No more shitty own brand label food from the local supermarket, no more eking out her meagre grant, life was looking up. Or so she thought.

Because of her straight looking plain appearance she was perfect for the task, .because she was so perfect she found herself getting all the bigger jobs. She was quite happy at first, let's face it bigger job bigger pay off. But then the paranoia set in, this couldn’t last; eventually she'd get caught. What would her family say? What if she ended up in jail? All that studying would have gone to waste.

Well, this would be the last, she wanted out and she'd tell them today as soon as she dropped off the package but she’d have to be careful how she went about it, it wasn't like packing in any normal job, a quick goodbye, a few drinks at the end of the last day and then you're off, these guys were scary so she would have to be tactful.

She bought another coffee to go, got her car keys out of her bag and returned to her car to complete the journey.

When she got to her car her heart skipped a beat, shit!, it's unlocked, panicking she looked in the back seat, the holdall was still there, she caught her breath, tried to calm down a bit and got in her car and headed on her way.

Universal Reader Link:  https://books2read.com/u/bMwN6A

 

Author Bio

A Real Ale Loving Scottish Crime Writer. Originally from Aberdeen, now residing in Edinburgh. This is my first novel, available October. Im currently working on my second novel featuring Ronnie Buchanan, working title Cold Shot.

Links:

Find out more...http://about.me/stevechristieauthor

Check out the video on Youtube!  http://youtu.be/nRjrh74zDXE

Facebook:  https://www.facebook.com/steve.christie.167?fref=ts
Twitter:  @schristieauthor
LinkedIn:  http://www.linkedin.com/profile/view?id=143876790&locale=en_US&trk=tyah
Goodreads:  http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6458799.Steve_Christie

Check out our latest Writing in the Modern Age blog article here.

My guest today is Rebecca Frencl. Hello, Rebecca! Welcome to Writing in the Modern Age! It’s such a pleasure to have you here again.

Can you tell us a little bit about your latest book? When did it come out? Where can we get it?

RIBBONS OF MOONLIGHT was released by Solstice on February 13, 2011. I thought it was pretty appropriate that a romance novel came out the day before Valentine's Day.  

Ribbons of Moonlight won the Best Romance 2012 contest after the first of the year! It's a time travel romance--Emma goes back in time to 1773 while on holiday in England for her friend's period wedding. Her coach is robbed by the highwayman who turns out to be much more than she ever expected. Connor drags her out of the coach and into his world turning her heart upside down. The red coats are on his tail and while he has a secret ally, there is also a traitor in their midst. This all seems so familiar to Emma. Can she figure it out and help save Connor while keeping her heart intact? 

RIBBONS OF MOONLIGHT is available in both ebook and print versions at the Solstice website, Amazon, Barnes and Noble and Smashwords.

Is there anything that prompted your latest book? Something that inspired you?

This book was actually inspired by one of my favorite narrative poems "The Highwayman" by Alfred Noyes. It was a challenge to write a book based on a tragic poem while keeping true to the heart of the poem, but not having the book have such a dismal ending! 

Great! So, when did you know you wanted to write? Or has it always been a pastime of yours?

I think I've always written. I remember my favorite toy as a kid was a typewriter my mom and dad gave me for Christmas. I used to write plays for my cousins. I think I wrote my first "book" in 7th grade and I haven't looked back since then. Though, I have expanded my horizons. While, fantasy is still my first love, I've also really learned to love romance, mystery and paranormal as well. 

Do you have any favorite authors? 

Wow. Too many. It also depends on the genre. In fantasy, I love David Eddings and Mercedes Lackey. Though in young adult, I am a sucker for Rick Riordan and Veronica Rossi. I adore Elizabeth Peters' Amelia Peabody mysteries and Lynn Kurland's time travel romances. Diana Gabaldon and Robin McKinley will always have a special place in my heart for their inspiration. 

Do you write in a specific place?  Time of day?

I write wherever and whenever I get the chance. On the couch, at my desk, on a park bench--between meetings, during a test the kids are taking, while my little girl is swinging from the monkey bars. My life is a little crazed so I snatch the time when I can. 

Are there any words you'd like to impart to fellow writers. Any advice?

Don't write what you know--write what you love and keep writing. Perseverance is the secret in this business. There's a quote I recently found that really speaks to me, "If it's important you'll find a way. If it's not--you'll find an excuse."

Don't find an excuse. Find a way.  

Here is the blurb for Ribbons of Moonlight.

Emma Sanders:

She’s a damsel in distress—a 20^th century miss dragged back to the 18^th with no way home and no idea how she got there in the first place.

Connor MacAllister Kane:

He’s the reason she’s in distress--a British highwayman, and a minor noble with not much more to his name than a title and a Robin Hood-like charm who robs the wrong coach.

Now, Captain Nelson Rawlins of His Majesty’s Royal Dragoons, a former childhood friend of Connor’s who sacrificed friendship for duty is on the hunt for the Highwayman and traitors to the crown. The longer Emma stays in Connor’s time, the more she’s drawn to him and drawn into his troubles. She and Connor find themselves struggling to stay one step ahead of the Captain and his corrupt Commander and keep Connor and his roguish cousins from the hangman’s noose. As the Commander’s grip on the countryside tightens, the people need Connor even more, but Rawlins is hot on his trail and there’s a traitor in their midst. Can Emma use her twentieth century wits to keep both Connor and her heart safe?

Here's an excerpt from Ribbons of Moonlight.

 

 

Chapter One

 

She looks so beautiful. 

That’s all Emma could think as she watched her oldest friend in the whole world dance in the arms of the man who loved her. 

With a sigh, Emma touched her champagne glass to her lips. The bubbles burst across her tongue and burned down her throat.  

“Well, Chelle,” she whispered, “we’ve come a long way since our days in the ‘burbs. It’s everything you’ve ever wanted and more.” She raised her glass to her friend then turned out of the terrace doors leaving William’s strains of the love theme from The Highwayman behind her.

            A cool breeze caressed her skin shifting the ruffles at her neckline and elbows. Emma took a deep breath. The perfume of the Old English roses and night-blooming jasmine smelled as sweet as the wine in her glass. She paced the weathered granite walk, heels catching a little on the weather roughened stones, and braced her arms on the balcony rail to look over the amazing Kircaldy Manor gardens. She leaned over the glass-smooth balustrade and brushed her fingers against the climbing red roses. Petals cascaded and their perfume rose. The guidebook in her guest room back at the inn told her that Kircaldy was one of oldest gardens in this area, dating back to the 1600’s. The tangled roses and curved white stone walks glimmered in the bright starlight. Emma leaned back and tipped her face to the sky. You couldn’t see this many stars in Chicago. The moon looked closer too; huge and swollen with only a thread of cloud across its face. 

Clematis vines crawled up the railings. Delicately closed candy-striped blooms brushed her knuckles. A gentle breeze ruffled the blossoming cherry tree to her right, stirring the stems of the strawflowers. 

            The music behind her changed, shifted from the love theme into a pulsing dance beat that made her rib cage thrum. Glancing over her shoulder back into the ballroom, she watched her friend reach out a hand to Tom Cruise, accepting his congratulations on her wedding. Emma shook her head in amazement with a smile. Yes, Michaela Evers, star of the sleepy summer hit The Highwayman, had definitely come a long way from the small Chicago suburb she’d shared with school librarian Emma Sanders. I don’t think I’ll ever really get used to rubbing elbows with the stars, Emma mused. 

            The bride’s dress whispered silk over silk as she stepped through the terrace doors. “Emma, dear, what in heaven’s name are you doing out here?”

             A seed pearl crown glinted amid the elaborate twists of Michaela’s long blond tresses. The filmy veil was pushed away from her face to pour in a shimmering wave to her hips. Moonlight danced on the diamonds around Michaela’s throat.

            Emma smiled and traced a finger over the tanzanite star hanging from a white gold chain around her throat. Michaela had given it to her as a bridesmaid’s gift just the day before. Emma had tried to tell Michaela that the suite of necklace and earrings had been far too expensive, but she should have learned long ago that when Michaela set her mind to something, she always won.

            “Good lord, Em, you’re missing all the dancing.” 

Michaela latched onto Emma’s arm and pulled her back into the twinkling lights of the Kircaldy Grand Ballroom. Michaela linked an arm through Emma’s and smiled at Megan Daly, star from TV’s Through the Sands of Time, as they passed. 

“Lovely lady,” Michaela muttered. “Too bad she’s stuck on that trashy soap.” 

            “If I recall, a certain star started on a trashy soap. Night Heart wasn’t exactly classic cinema,” Emma replied and set her empty champagne glass on a tray borne by a butler in gleaming black tie and tux.

            Michaela laughed, snagging two canapés from another tray. She handed one to Emma and nibbled on the other. “Oh, Em, you’re the one thing I really miss since I moved to California.”

Emma sniffed at the fancy swirl of pink and white cream on what she thought was a cracker. It smelled fishy. “Well, Chelle, I miss you too.” She stuffed the concoction in her mouth and rolled her eyes in bliss. Whatever it was, it was really good. She looked around for that tray-wielding waiter. 

“Then move to California, Emma.” Michaela’s hand tightened on Emma’s arm. “I worry about you all alone in Chicago.”

Emma swallowed and patted her friend’s hand. Her gaze followed Lester Brym and Alan Saddler as the two muscle men made their way to the bar. “I’m not moving to California, Chelle, and I’m hardly alone.” She pulled her gaze from the action stars to smile at her oldest friend. “I have Alfred.”

Michaela snorted. “That stupid parrot is older than you are.”

“Yes, but he keeps me company and besides, I like living in Chicago.” 

Kim Pierce, the fashion editor of Delirious swooped in to step between the two women. She looked over both Emma’s and Michaela’s period gowns.

“Lovely, just lovely,” Kim murmured. She smoothed her short ebony swing of hair back behind her ears. “A word with you, Miss Evers, or should I be calling you Mrs. Kalver now?” She chuckled and dug into her palm-sized bag pulling out a small notebook. “I’d like to have a word with you about scheduling an interview with you and the designer?” 

“Oh, Em, will you excuse me?” With an apologetic glance, Michaela walked away, smoothing down her embroidered silk gown. 

Emma watched her friend wander off, chattering excitedly to Pierce about the young designer who’d designed all her gowns. Emma brushed a hand over the pale blue silk skirt of the gown Michaela had especially designed for her as maid of honor. It was lovely. A pale blue bodice laced up the front, embroidery and touches of lace at elbow and neckline—just enough to give it a delicate feminine look. The skirt was full and heavy, the type she’d have loved at ten, perfect for spinning around and around.

Emma laughed at herself and leaned against one of the huge marble pillars that supported the carved vaulted ceiling of the great hall. With the cool marble at her back, she watched the revelers whirl by. Candlelight glowed from the wall sconces, bathing everything in a shimmering, shifting light. Shadows wove around the columns and the dancers in the uncertain illumination.

Many of the guests had loved Michaela’s idea of a period wedding and dressed for the occasion. Some wore silks and satins, others muslin, and tartan. 

Emma turned away from the dance floor. She didn’t belong here. She knew that. This glittering world wasn’t hers. It was Michaela’s and she’d never be comfortable there. 

The first time she’d visited Michaela in L.A., Michaela had dragged her to every Hollywood hotspot she could find. 

“I think she was hoping I’d snag a star,” Emma murmured to herself and then shook her head. No Hollywood heartthrob would look twice at a librarian from Chicago.

She pushed away from the column, making her way toward the main doors. Now free of Kim Pierce, Michaela was fully engaged in talking to Luke and Kyle Tredari. Michaela wouldn’t notice if Emma slipped away a little early.

As she approached the doors, the Kircaldy hostess slid out of the office near the doorway. The small woman wore a trim tailored suit in cherry red. Emma looked at it with a little bit of envy wishing she had the courage to buy something bold like that.

“May I help you, madam?” the hostess asked.

“I’d like a ride back to the inn, if you wouldn’t mind calling one of the carriages?” 

Emma rubbed her temples.  It was only ten or so and she was already exhausted. A bath and book in her charming and comfy room sounded so good right now. 

“Of course, Ms. Sanders.” The hostess ducked out the door and very shortly one of the carriages rumbled up to the marble steps. 

Emma felt like a queen, letting the coachman help her into the leather cab of the carriage. Another one of Michaela’s brainstorms was to have all the bridesmaids and guests taken from the church to the hall in coaches—the exact type the highwaymen would rob. 

Emma settled back in the seat. The carriage took off with a jolt, but soon settled into a rocking motion. The clip-clop of the horses’ hooves and the squeak of the carriage rigging were very soothing. The tight knots of tension at her temples began to unravel. She pushed aside the leather curtain and looked out the narrow window. 

The moon bathed the private country road in sliver moonlight. The road stretched like a white ribbon winding through the trees that, according to her guidebook, were over four hundred years old. The night was still and quiet, the only sounds the jingle and clop of the carriage rigging and the horses’ hooves. Not even a breeze whispered through the trees at the road side. 

Emma let the curtain fall back into place. It would be about a half hour or more before they reached the little period inn. She slipped off her shoes and snuggled on the seat, her head pillowed on her hands. The gentle swaying of the cab lulled her. Quiet, alone, safe, she felt her eyes drift shut. With a sleepy little sigh she gave in. 

The carriage jolted to a halt. Emma slid neatly from the leather seat and onto the hard floor of the carriage. Silk and leather obviously weren’t good bed fellows. Her skirt pooled around her. 

“What in heaven’s name?” she muttered. 

With less grace than a baby giraffe she scrambled from the floor and smoothed her skirts back into place Carefully, she dropped to the seat again. 

With a frown, she reached for the door handle intending to ask the driver what in God’s name was going on. It disappeared under her hand, whipped open from the outside. 

“Just lovely,” the man towering in the doorway muttered. He was a dark shadow highlighted only by slashes of moonlight. When he smiled, a beam of moonlight showed missing teeth. Emma’s eyes widened, her heart leaping painfully in her chest. With her hands fisted in her skirt, heart pounding she first heard the voices murmuring outside the cab.

Good lord, she thought a shiver skating up her spine, how many of them are there? 

 

Chapter Two

 

Emma pressed her back against the leather seat of the carriage and stared at the man, her mouth slightly ajar. She didn’t recognize him as a guest from the wedding. He was tall with dark messy hair and a toothless grin she didn’t like at all. 

She swallowed hard and pressed a hand to her throat. Should she scream? What if Michaela had organized the entire scenario and she spoiled the fun by trying to kill the poor actor in front of her? 

“Who are you?” Her voice trembled far more than she anticipated.

“Good idea, luv, why don’t we get to know each other a little better?” he asked levering himself into the carriage. His hair was matted and the stench of horse and sour sweat filled the cab. He licked his lips as he reached for her neckline. A beam of moonlight showed her his grime encrusted nails and hairy knuckles. “Pretty little bauble, that.” She could feel her skin crawl at the thought of that filthy hand touching her. She clutched the necklace he was admiring and shrank back further. 

Emma brought both feet up to chest level, startling the man with a look under her skirt, and kicked. Both feet punched him hard in the chest. Words Emma could barely understand pierced the night as he lurched backward from the carriage to land on the road, arms and legs sprawled.

Quickly, Emma repositioned herself on the seat, back pressed against the opposite door, ready for another attack. Whoever these people were, she wouldn’t let them take her easily. Ugly laughter, both sadistic and frightening, increased the tremble in her hands.

“She’s a lively ‘un. I’m gunna enjoy this.”

Male laughter poured through the door, followed by insults she would rather not hear. 

Good lord, there must be at least five of them. Emma scrambled for her shoes and slipped the two-inch heels on. If she’d had them on when she’d kicked, the man would be gone for good. She wedged herself in the corner of the carriage and drew up her feet, ready to kick out again. She gripped the seat leather with clammy hands, her gaze intent on the swinging door.

Where was the driver? Where the hell were the cops? 

The door at her back whipped open. Emma tumbled out of the carriage in a froth of pale blue skirts. Startled, she screamed and braced herself for her collision with the road. Hands hooked under her arms, stopping her from a painful crash. 

Well and truly over her fright, she kicked and punched, trying to remember every dirty trick she’d been taught about self-defense. The man stumbled. Triumphant, she leaned into him. If he fell he’d let her go. 

“Spirited little dabchick, eh?” 

I’ll show you spirited! Emma skinned her heel down her assailant’s shin.The arms around her tightened. 

“Bloody hell!” he yelled and lifted her right off her feet.

“Let me go!” Emma twisted against the arms that held hers pinned to her sides. “Just wait until the cops get here! I’m filing every charge in the book!”

“Just a bit bats, is she?” A voice off the side asked. “Need a hand there, boy?”

Emma looked over to see the dark-haired man she’d forcibly ejected from the carriage. The man started forward to take hold of Emma. A desperate plan formed in her mind and she settled within the powerful embrace. She watched the dark-haired man approach her as though she’d turned into a wild animal. Her heart thumped in her chest. She blew annoying twists of hair from her face.

When he got within kicking range, she used her captor’s strong hold to lever herself up and kick at the man again, with her shoes on this time. The man howled. His hand whipped up to cover a gash that ran from his forehead to his chin. Blood trickled from beneath his hand.

Emma’s eyes widened. She’d done it! Maybe they would leave her alone, now.

“That’ll be enough of that, Miss.” Her captor’s low, liquid voice slid down her spine. “Stop trying to take a piece of us. Your virtue is safe enough for the moment,” a brief pause, “and your life as well.”

Emma stilled, shaking with rage in the man’s arms. She’d seen enough episodes of The New Detectives to know that a kidnapper’s word was worth spit, but she needed to get him to let her go. If he let her go, she might be able to find a chance to escape. She took a deep breath that turned into a gasp when she realized that her captor’s hands were fully over her breasts. 

“Get your hands off of me,” she ordered, her voice low.

“Will you accept our word, miss?” The arms tightened one last time. “Or do we continue this invigorating and rather entertaining romp?” 

He pressed his groin into her lower back.  A gasp slipped past her lips. All the wrestling around had aroused him. She felt it clearly even through her layers of petticoats and skirts.

Her stomach jumped with nerves. “I’ll accept your word for exactly what it’s worth,” she whispered.

The arms stayed locked for a moment as her captor seemed to weigh her words. Then, he released her abruptly. Her stomach lurched. She let out an alarmed cry, but the man caught her by the elbow until she regained her balance. With a deep breath, she gathered her skirts in her hands, and turned to look at her captor. 

He was tall. She had to tip her head back to look at him. She saw dark hair, longer than she was used to, pulled back into a tail. A small breeze tugged at some loose strands. His eyes were shadowed, but one dark brow rose at her study. She dropped her eyes from his face. He was dressed in a long coat, brass buttons gleamed in the moonlight.  She couldn’t quite tell the color of the coat, the light was too uncertain, but the white shirt beneath shone in the moonlight.  

With a wary glance she looked around. The coach still sat in the road, the horses stamping in their traces. One man stood with the horses, the reins in his hands, another popped out of the carriage cab shaking his head. Two more secured the unconscious driver to a tree. Emma saw a trickle of blood slipping down his face from under the powered wig. 

They were all dressed like her captor in long coats and boots and they were all staring at her. She swallowed, a lump in her throat. She wondered if they could see the pulse jumping in her throat? She clasped her hands together and looked back at her captor.

“What do you want from me?” she asked making herself look up at him. 

He must be one of Michaela’s more eccentric movie friends. She also noticed for the first time that there were horses tethered to the nearby trees. This looked like something out of a movie set. In fact, it looked like a scene directly out of The Highwayman.

With a scowl, she tore her eyes away from his extraordinary face and looked around the clearing. She fisted her hands on her hips.

“This is absolutely ridiculous. Did Chelle put you up to this?” she demanded glaring up at him. “I can see it now.” She threw her hands up, “Chelle thought I’d need a little excitement in my life so she put you all up to waylaying me from the reception.” 

Emma looked around at the four actors loosely ringing her, their mouths hanging open. She looked back at her captor. 

“I must admit it’s awfully authentic. And she does have amazing taste in men, but I told her before that I’m not interested.” She brushed invisible dirt from her skirts and turned away from the man. “Well, it’s been exciting, but I’m exhausted. Tell Chelle you tried to get me to go along with it all, but that I just wasn’t in the mood.” She started back toward the carriage. “Someone nudge the driver and tell him the jig is up.”

“She’s not a little bats, Connor,” the man who’d originally grabbed for her said, “she’s absolutely stark staring.” 

“Something’s not quite right here, Adam,” Emma heard the man murmur as he reached out and grabbed her as she passed. Emma tried to shrug his hand off her arm. 

“I told you I’m not interested. I want to get back to the hotel.”

The fingers tightened around her arm. Her intended retort died on her lips. His eyes were not amused. He wasn’t laughing. Boy, he’s good. 

Her gaze darted around the clearing. He was correct, something wasn’t quite right here. The men were not dressed in quite the same style of clothes as she’d seen at the wedding. They were also dirtier than the average party-goer. The man who’d said she was bats was the worst—matted hair and missing teeth. One of the other had dirt smeared down the side of his face. The sleeves of the coats were raggedly and the boots mud encrusted. And if she wasn’t mistaken, that man over in the corner just pulled a musket out of a saddle holster. Weaponry had not been included in any of the costumes she’d seen and that one looked way too authentic to be a prop. 

She turned back to Connor’s unsmiling face. She felt her breath hitching and forced herself to take deep slow breath. She wiped sweaty palms on her skirt.   

“You’re not an actor, are you?” she asked quietly. 

He shook his head. 

She looked at the other men. They moved closer and the smell of horse and fire smoke wafted over. Moonlight gleamed on a pistol barrel in one hand.  “They’re not actors either, are they,” she whispered making him bend down to hear her.

He shook his head again.

They stood nearly nose to nose for a silent moment, her eyes intent on his. “If you’re not actors and you’re not here because Chelle sent you, who are you and what do you want?” Her breath hitched again, coming faster. Her heart hammered in her chest and her knees felt weak. Emma didn’t think she’d be able to run now if she wanted to. 

A satanic smile lifted the corners of his full lips. He leaned forward until Emma smelled campfire smoke on his jacket. She wanted to step back, but couldn’t. She needed to hear his words, to know why they’d stopped her carriage and fairly accosted her. Connor raised his eyebrows and beckoned her to come closer. Against her better judgment, she tipped her head and moved another inch.

 “We’re highwaymen, milady,” he whispered in her ear, “and what we want is…you.”

Universal Reader link:  https://books2read.com/u/4joPnY

 

Author Bio  

   

When I was a kid growing up in the near Chicago suburbs I knew what I wanted to do. I wanted to teach and I wanted to write. I’d spend hours over the little typewriter Mom and Dad bought for me when I was little clattering away at stories and plays I’d wheedle my cousins and brother into performing. I think I wrote my first “book” in 6^th grade and had a friend illustrate it for me. I never really looked back from there.

Now, I can say that I’ve achieved both of my goals. I’ve been teaching 8^th graders for more than 15 years, sharing my love of words with hundreds. I always tell my kids that it’s not that they don’t like to read they just haven’t met the right book yet. I make it one of my missions in life to put those books into their hands.

My love of literature lead to my debut Solstice novel, Ribbons of Moonlight. I’ve always loved poetry and “The Highwayman” has always been a personal favorite. I always thought there was more to that story and now there is.

So, here am I living—still living in the Chicago suburbs, a little further out than where I first started, but I can still see the skyline on my drive in to work. I married my high school prom date and we share a beautiful little girl, two spoiled hound dogs and a love of reading and all things Disney. Overall, I’m happy where I am, but I’m also looking forward to seeing what the next several years bring. Hopefully, it will bring me several more books on this author page!

You can find me at:

http://rebeccalfrencl.blogspot.com/

https://www.facebook.com/pages/Rebecca-L-Frencl/115163871892050?ref=hl

https://twitter.com/rlfrencl

Amazon Author Page:  https://www.amazon.com/Rebecca-L-Frencl/e/B00EQDG5C4/

 

The Shattered Prism was just released in June 2013 through Solstice Publishing.

Universal Reader link:  https://books2read.com/u/3LwyAJ    

Check out our latest Writing in the Modern Age blog article here.

My guest today is Jessica Tornese. Hello, Jessica! Welcome to Writing in the Modern Age! It’s such a pleasure to have you here.  

Can you tell us a little about your books? Where can we get them?

I have a series out about time travel. Linked Through Time and Lost Through Time are available now. As of right now, Destroyed In Time will be the next title. Linked Through Time and Lost Through Time are on Solstice, Amazon, Barnes&Noble, Smashwords and Kobo.

Is there anything that prompted your books? Anything that inspired you?

I grew up with a large family. My Dad was one of eleven children, so I have endless tales of cousins and extended family. My Dad’s stories always stuck with me because he grew up with nothing. Absolutely nothing! He did not have indoor plumbing until high school- in Northern Minnesota! I admire him and wanted to keep his stories alive. A lot of what happens to Kate in “Linked” are true events from my dad’s childhood. Lost Through Time mentions a disaster that actually occurred in my home town in 1910. I guess I just really like to keep the stories of our ancestors from dying out. They were true, hard core Americans fighting just to make a living.

So, when did you know you wanted to write? Or has it always been a pastime of yours?

I didn’t really start writing books until a few years ago, but I have always loved writing and reading. They go hand in hand, I think.

Do you have any favorite authors? 

Absolutely! I love Diana Gabaldon, Francine Rivers, Jodi Piccoult, Kristin Hannah and Phillippa Gregory.
 

Do you write in a specific place? Time of day?

I just plug away at my computer whenever I get a spare moment. Three kids under the age of 10 in all kinds of activities keeps me hopping. Which means I am usually writing at ten at night!

Are there any words you'd like to impart to fellow writers. Any advice?

I would definitely say to reread your story many times, and to put it away for a week or two before taking it out to read it once more before submission. It’s easy to get burnt out on something you’ve written and lose sight of what the goal is. I also try not to look at bad reviews, unless they offer a critique that is genuine instead of just an opinion. You can’t please everyone out there and sometimes people can be just plain mean. If it is your passion and something you believe in, then it’s golden. 

Here is the blurb for Linked Through Time.  

Fifteen year old Kate Christenson is pretty sure she’s about to experience the worst possible summer at her grandparent’s farm in rural Baudette, Minnesota. Without cable, cell phones, or computers, Kate is headed for total isolation and six tedious weeks of boredom. Until the storm.

A freak lightning accident has Kate waking up in 1960. But she is not herself. She is the aunt she never met, but has eerily resembled her entire life. Thrust into living a dirt poor, rural farm life, Kate struggles to make sense of her situation- a boyfriend with a dark side, a “townie” who steals her heart, and the knowledge that 1960 is the very summer her aunt drowns in the local river. 

Even with every precaution, Kate cannot stop fate, and an unexpected twist adds to her dilemma. To her horror, Kate finds out firsthand her aunt’s death was not an accident or a suicide, but something much, much worse.

Here's an excerpt from Linked Through Time. 

Steering carefully into the gravel drive of the Rapid River parking lot, I swore under my breath as the bike’s rear wheel slid on loose gravel. Trying to right the bike too quickly, I ended up swerving sharply to the left and crashing into the brush at the side of the gravel lot. Flying over the handlebars, I landed in a patch of overgrown weeds, my knee striking a rock hidden in the ground. Pain radiated from my knee, paralyzing me for a moment. I lay sprawled face first in the grass, breathing in the smell of earth and dry grass, cursing myself and everything on the planet.

Emotions overwhelmed my frazzled, fragile mind and I let loose with a string of profanities that would have definitely earned me a whipping. Rubbing my throbbing knee, I groaned.

Lightning flashed and the breeze picked up as if on cue, sending the cattails above my head into an agitated dance. 

With great effort, I stood and flexed my leg. I could feel the slightest trickle of blood dripping a warm path down my shin. Perfect, I grimaced. Can anything else possibly go wrong tonight?

My vision had adjusted slightly to the moonless night, but I still had to partly feel my way to the place Travis and I spent the evening. Pushing through the brush, I couldn’t help but sense that uneasy, creepy feeling that comes from wandering in the dark, as though eyes watched you and monster hands waited to grab at your feet. My heart pounded loudly in my ears, the tingling creep of fear working its way from my head down through my limbs. I forced myself to keep my eyes forward, ignoring the nagging feeling that someone or something watched me from the shadows of the rocky shore. 

Limbs of the interlocking pines poked and prodded my bare arms as I threaded my way through the trees. The pounding of the rapids had increased with the coming of the storm; the wind tossed the water upon the rocks, sending spray high into the air. 

When I broke through the tree line, I stood mesmerized by the awesome power of the roaring water. It looked as if the rapids were fighting to break free of their rocky channel, its watery fingers washing over the rocks, reaching far down the wall, only to withdraw and try again. 

Above the churning waters, a simple two-lane bridge hung defiantly in the air, its thick concrete arches planted firmly around the dangerous rocks. Suddenly, a semi loaded with logs thundered across the bridge overhead; its headlights lighting up the darkness for a matter of seconds. I used the momentary help to break my gaze from the water and search the outer banks for my sweater. 

A flicker of movement amidst the trees caught my line of sight, and I focused in on a ring of pines to my right; the very place Travis and I had been a few hours earlier. 

“Travis?” I called out hopefully, thinking he had remembered to retrieve my sweater.

Universal Purchase link:  https://books2read.com/u/bMww6X

 

Here is the blurb for Lost Through Time. 

“There never was a body, you know.”

Such is the bizarre statement from Gran only weeks after Kate has returned from an accidental time traveling incident, surviving certain death…twice. Capturing Sarah’s killer seemed to be the reason for Kate’s disappearance, but Gran believes otherwise.

Learning of Kate’s power to time travel loosens memories and desires Gran has long since buried. Gran is set on finding Sarah, who she believes never died the night Dave Slater threw her in the river, but instead, went back in time through the Rapid River portal. With rudimentary research and analysis, Gran thinks she has unlocked the secrets to controlling the time traveling link that she and Kate share with their ancestors and she plans to use Kate to bring Sarah back.

When Kate agrees, she is shocked to find out that in the more aggressive form of time travel, she doesn’t become Sarah, but trades places with her, sending Kate to Baudette, Minnesota in the year of 1910, and Sarah ahead to the year 2000.

Baudette’s catastrophic 1910 fire and typhoid epidemic are the least of Kate’s worries once she discovers what has happened. Her chances of a return trip are thwarted with the struggle just to survive, and Sarah, reliving her lost childhood in the ease of current day life, decides to never return to the past, leaving Kate to suffer the life she has left behind. 

Gran is torn- get rid of the daughter she has dreamed of finding for four decades, or rescue the precious granddaughter who risked everything for her selfish dream? And to what lengths will Sarah go to destroy any chances of Kate coming back? Will Sarah succeed in severing the link?

And an excerpt from Lost Through Time.

I felt the exact moment my heart stopped beating in my chest.

“Where’s Mary?” I said, trying to keep the alarm from rising in my voice. The group looked around, stunned.

Vivie handed Gracie to James. “She was just here. I swear it.”

Frantic, we strained to see across the wagon bridge into Spooner. The brilliant blond tresses of Mary’s head were nowhere to be seen.

Ruth spoke up. “That man took her to the depot.”

I stared hard at Ruth, trying to process the words, but not understanding. “What man?” I said, confused. There were dozens of people crossing the bridge rushing in all directions. Like ants on a collapsing anthill, the twin towns were alive with chaos, the people coming and going with what looked like little purpose. “What man?” I said again, the panic seizing my voice and pushing it another octave higher. I grasped Ruth’s arms in a painful, panicked grip.

Ruth shrank away, afraid I might lash out. “I don’t know. I was watching John. Aunt Vivie told me to watch John.” Her eyes welled with tears. “I had John,” she insisted again, afraid of taking the blame.

“What did the man look like? What was he doing?” I demanded.

“He was that man from the backyard. The big man who touched Mary’s hair. I heard him say he could help her run faster. For her to take his hand.”

Sickness heaved inside and I clenched my jaw.

“You were getting sick over the bridge,” Ruth accused. “You weren’t helping at all! Mary couldn’t keep up and she was crying!”

Vivie reached out and gripped my shoulders. Without saying a word, we stared hard into each other’s eyes, the truth of the situation passing between us as though we were speaking aloud. McGraw had bided his time, watched us from afar and waited for a weak moment. He couldn’t possibly know the danger he faced. Was it a ploy? Would he really take Mary? Or was he just trying to get me alone to give chase and play his twisted game of revenge?

“I’ll go,” Vivie said, the sacrifice evident in the firm line of her mouth. “You can’t fall for his trap, Kate. He won’t do anything to me.”

“No,” I argued. “Too dangerous. If something happens to you, then Gran will never be born, and then, neither will I.”

Universal Reader link:  https://books2read.com/u/mq11y1

 

Author Bio

Jessica was recently voted Solstice Publishing’s 2012 Author of the Year!

Jessica Tornese’s debut novel, Linked Through Time, was inspired by her home town Baudette, MN. She graduated from high school there and continued her education at Minnesota State University – Moorhead where she earned a degree in education. She spent several years coaching in the Junior Olympic volleyball program in Minnesota as well as the junior varsity team for Lake of the Woods High School in 2010.

Her favorite hobbies include reading, scrapbooking, playing volleyball, and extreme outdoor sports like caving, ziplining and white water rafting. Jessica is also active in her church and has run several Vacation Bible School programs and Sunday school programs. She enjoys working with kids of all ages!

She hopes to finish her Linked trilogy soon, and continue writing. Recently, she self-published her first juvenile fiction book for kids online. (see M&M Twins cover below)

Jessica is married and has three children. Her family recently relocated to a small town in south Florida.

Links:

http://www.amazon.com/Lost-Through-Time-ebook/dp/B009ZUKKR4/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1365111338&sr=1-1&keywords=lost+through+time

http://www.amazon.com/Linked-Through-Time-Jessica-Tornese/dp/1477570799/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1365111662&sr=1-1&keywords=linked+through+time

Facebook- https://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/Linked-Through-Time/392292227468460?fref=ts

Twitter- @jltornese

Blog/Website- http://www.jessicatornese.com

Amazon Author Page- https://www.amazon.com/Jessica-Tornese/e/B008LUYA66

Universal Reader Link-  https://books2read.com/u/bWGGV1

Check out our latest Writing in the Modern Age blog article here.

My guest today is Sally Carpenter. Hello, Sally! Welcome to Writing in the Modern Age! It’s such a pleasure to have you here.  

Can you tell us a little about your latest book? When did it come out? Where can we get it?

The Baffled Beatlemaniac Caper is a humorous mystery released in 2011 by Oak Tree Press. The book was a Eureka! Award finalist for best first mystery novel in 2012 at Left Coast Crime.  Print and ebook versions can be ordered from Amazon.com or BN.com.

“Baffled” is the first book in the Sandy Fairfax Teen Idol mystery series. Sandy is a 38-year-old former ‘70s teen idol who starred in the hit TV show Buddy Brave, Boy Sleuth but his career stalled after cancellation. Now he’s a recovering alcoholic seeking a comeback and solving mysteries along the way.

Is there anything that prompted your latest book? Something that inspired you?

I’m a huge Monkees fan and that got me interested in teen idols in general, their lives and careers and how one copes with fame and fortune. Teen idols are interesting characters but writers were ignoring them.

I also love those 1970s TV detective shows that were short on police procedural but long on personality and charm. I thought it’d be interesting to write a character that started off playing a detective on TV and ended up as an amateur sleuth solving real cases.

Wow! So, when did you know you wanted to write? Or has it always been a pastime of yours?

I’ve always enjoyed reading. I spent most of my childhood summers at the public library. Growing up I often received books as presents. Some of my grade school teachers read books aloud to the class. As a child I made up stories about the characters on my favorite TV shows. That’s probably why my series protagonist is a former TV star.

I’ve written on and off over the years, sold some short pieces over the years, but became more serious about writing in the mid-1990s. I started writing mysteries in 2008 after I attended a panel of mystery authors hosted by Sisters in Crime.  

Do you have any favorite authors? 

Arthur Conan Doyle, of course. Richard Levinson and William Link, who created many of the great TV detective series. I have a number of friends who write. I hate to single out anyone but lately I’ve read Steve Hockinsmith, Stephen Brayton, William Doonan and Jim Callen.

Do you write in a specific place? Time of day?

I write at home. I can’t concentrate in coffee houses or other places that are noisy and busy. I work a full-time day job to pay the bills, so I write some evenings and mostly on weekends. I run errands during the week so on weekends I can focus solely on writing.

Are there any words you'd like to impart to fellow writers. Any advice?

Don’t start writing with the expectation of instant fame and fortune. A few authors hit the jackpot with big sales, but most don’t. If you’re writing only for the money, you’ll be disappointed. Your first book is the “calling card” that gets your name out there and will probably earn little money. Authors increase their sales by writing more books. As more product is available, sales and interest will increase, but promotion is a slow, on-going process.

Here is the blurb for The Baffled Beatlemaniac Caper.

In the 1970s teen idol Sandy Fairfax recorded six gold records and starred in the hit TV show Buddy Brave, Boy Sleuth. Now it's 1993 and he's a 38-year-old recovering alcoholic desperate for a comeback. An easy gig as the guest celebrity at a Beatles fan convention in the Midwest turns deadly when a member of the tribute band is shot. When the police suspect Sandy, the boy sleuth is back in action to find the killer.

Here's an excerpt from The Baffled Beatlemaniac Caper.

            I turned to face the formidable flatfoot. Braxton pounded questions at me as I rubbed my bloodshot eyes. I couldn’t concentrate.

            “Look, detective, I’m exhausted. I’ve had a long day that started before sunrise three time zones ago.” I glanced at my wristwatch: nearly 1 a.m. Pacific or Central time? I couldn’t remember if I reset my watch after my flight landed. “Can this wait until tomorrow? I mean, later today? The body can’t get any more dead than it is now.”

            Braxton glowered at me so hard that if looks could kill, he’d have a second stiff on the floor. “You claim the victim was still alive when you came in the room?”

            “Yes, sir.” I squeezed against the wall so the paramedics could carry out a stretcher with a black body bag strapped to it. As much as I wanted to look away, I couldn’t peel my eyes off the corpse.

            “Did the victim do or say anything that might identify the murderer?”

            “Yes, sir.”

            Braxton waited, his pen poised over his notebook page. “Well? What was it?”

            I licked my dry lips. I felt terribly thirsty. I knew Braxton would hate my answer. “He said, ‘Rocky Raccoon.’”

            Sure enough, he frowned at me. “Is that a joke?”

            “No, sir. That’s exactly what he said.”

            “Is that the name of the murderer? An animal? What’s a Rocky Raccoon?”

            “It’s a song.” Bunny stepped up beside us as she closed the zipper on the pouch that hung from her waist. “By John Lennon and Paul McCartney. Paul sings lead. It’s on disc one, side two, track five of The Beatles’ 1968 double record ‘White Album,’ which isn’t the name, but everyone calls it that because it was issued in a plain white cover with no artwork. I have a 1978 French import reissue with the records in white vinyl.”

            Braxton stared at her, too stunned to take notes, but I took it in stride. Fans possess encyclopedia knowledge of the minutest trivia.

Universal Purchase link:  https://books2read.com/u/b6vvAJ

  

Author Bio

  

Sally Carpenter is a native Hoosier now living in Moorpark, California.   

She has a master’s degree in theater from Indiana State University. While in school her plays “Star Collector” and “Common Ground” were finalists in the American College Theater Festival One-Act Playwrighting Competition. “Common Ground” also earned a college creative writing award. “Star Collector” was produced in New York City and also the inspiration for her book.  Carpenter also has a master’s degree in theology and a black belt in tae kwon do.    

She’s worked a variety of jobs including actress, freelance writer, college writing instructor, theater critic, jail chaplain, and tour guide/page for a major movie studio. She’s now employed at a community newspaper.

Her first book in the Sandy Fairfax Teen Idol mystery series, The Baffled Beatlemaniac Caper, was a 2012 Eureka! Award finalist for best first mystery novel. The second book, The Sinister Sitcom Caper, will be released in late 2013.   

Her short story, "Dark Nights at the Deluxe Drive-in," will be published in the 2013 SinC/LA anthology, Last Exit to Murder.  

She’s a member of Sisters in Crime/Los Angeles chapter and “mom” to two black cats.

Links:

Website:  http://sandyfairfaxauthor.com

Facebook:  https://www.facebook.com/sally.carpenter.54?fref=ts

Amazon Author Page:  https://www.amazon.com/Sally-Carpenter/e/B007TX0QW8

Check out our latest Writing in the Modern Age blog article here.

My guest today is Branka Čubrilo. Hello, Branka! Welcome to Writing in the Modern Age! It’s such a pleasure to have you here.

Can you tell us a little bit about your latest book? When did it come out? Where can we get it?

 

The Mosaic of the Broken Soul talks about love, betrayal, displacement and longing for the meaning in modern society, surviving a variety of adversity in human existence and ultimately – forgiveness as a tool of healing and embracing life.  As the title says it is a book of one soul’s ache, to simplify it.

I don’t know if the statement that ‘life is not meant to be easy’ is true, but I surely know that I had a very difficult period in my life and it forced me to look honestly into myself. Who am I and why am I that person? Do I, and to what extent, respect and love that person? The working fabric of my novel consisted of questions asking for answers, the questions each of us asks in time of crises or adversity, questions of life’s meaning and worthiness of it. As I was writing it, the characters from my life appeared on the stage and asked me to integrate them into the tale. The characters from the shores of the Adriatic Sea, the characters from the Italian Alps, the characters from the Isle of Man, London and Dublin…Sydney…and my life story started to take shape and to be woven into that fabric.

The book was published in the USA in 2011 (Speaking Volumes) and it attracted very positive reviews.

http://www.amazon.com/dp/1612320589

It was voted as a book of the month (September 2012) in Angie’s Diary, the largest online literary publication. http://angiesdiary.com/bookoftheweek-web/014-botwseptember232012.html

The book can be purchased at Amazon and all online booksellers, as well as my publisher advertizes ‘everywhere where books are sold’.  http://speakingvolumes.us/detail_ebooks.asp?pid=382

I’d like to add that the forthcoming novel is titled Fiume – The Lost River and is going to be published towards the end of the year.

Great! Is there anything that prompted your latest book? Something that inspired you?

Oh, yes! Both – prompted and inspired! It was a sudden, out of the blue illness that made me think about my life, my place in this world as a woman, as a mother, a friend and as a writer. I felt a strong need, almost to be obliged to tell the story of survival, courage, friendship, motherhood and in particular – love, as the ultimate healer and the most important ingredient in sustaining health, or in facing adversity. The inspiration for my book was my own insight into the mind’s formulations of reality, how easily depression can take over and how to respond to difficult situations, thoughts, emotions. I’ve never said that I have found the ultimate tools in healing oneself be it body or soul, but I have found my way out through cultivating thoughts that open heart and mind to new ways of perceiving life, thus allowing new possibilities. I wanted to share those experiences and insights with many people faced with life’s crossroads.

So, when did you know you wanted to write? Or has it always been a pastime of yours?

I would never call my writings a ‘pastime’ because there are much easier ways to choose as a pastime. I am a deep thinker, so my writings come with a ‘sweat and tears’ rather than some light entertainment for me and for my readers. Well, I knew I wanted to write really early in my life as I was always awarded for my work as a young student, right from primary school onwards.  My ‘little quirky stories and poems’ were published in school magazines and in a local youth press.

I always felt as if I had lived in parallel worlds, my daily life was so different from my inner world, and I was mixing them often with ease (for me) and sometimes with astonishment to my family and the environment, hence I started to write a novel to, somehow, separate those two parallel stories. I Knew Jane Eyre was born, based on my, at the time, need to ‘figure out how it would be if…' I was inclined to know about or figure out life’s ‘ifs’. While I was finishing the novel, I saw in the papers an advertisement – Young Writer’s Award Competition and hurried to finish my novel to send it off. There were three winners announced and I was, to my astonishment, one of them - the youngest one, with little experience in professional writing and publishing.

Writing is in my blood, it has never left me: subtle conversations I hear in the rain, the rustling of the leaves, the wind…those subtle whispers took me to the various trips around Europe and led me to various interesting people. The knowledge of languages, my curiosity and adaptability helped to easily penetrate into the cultural settings of Italy, Spain, England and Australia. Since then I have written eight novels, published six in two languages. I write in English and Croatian language. I write short stories too, that is, what I would call a ‘pastime’:  Short stories, little poems…sometimes in between writing a novel I am having a ‘little bit of fun’ with shorter expressions. My work has been published in various literary journals, in print and online, in various countries in Europe, then in the USA and Australia.

 
Do you have any favorite authors?

Sure! And the list is quite longish. I grew up on and was fed by classic literature so my heart is still there. I like very much Postmodernism and the writers I love to read are certainly the great example of postmodernism, like Samuel Beckett, Jorge Luis Borges, Italo Calvino (when talking about Italo, I love Italo Svevo too), Umberto Ecco, to name just a few. As I said, classic literature is where I go back to over and over again. I can’t say that those writers influenced my own work but I read and re-read Charles Dickens, Daniel Defoe, Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Alexander Dumas, Leo Tolstoy, Honore de Balzac. I can’t miss Marcel Proust and Jean Paul Sartre and name them as my favourite authors. Just recently I have discovered a great contemporary writer Michael Arditti. Whether those writers inspired and influenced my work is hard to say, but it is enough to say that I’ve spent hours, days and years in reading and often go back to the same source for nourishment.

Do you write in a specific place?  Time of day?

Location influences my work absolutely. That’s why writers travel – in search of original characters or plots. In all of my novels I travel throughout the world. I start my story in a certain location with its cultural and historical settings and I take my characters across Europe, the UK, the USA and Australia. My characters are well-traveled people, always in search of a ‘greener grass’, ‘better opportunity’, ‘bigger love’, or purely more extravagant adventure…

I can’t escape (and why would I?) those locations: I was born in Croatia, I still carry the salty air of the Adriatic in my soul, Italy was a weekly experience and Italian’s my second language, sometimes I miss Italy more than any other location. I lived in Andalucia with my daughter and the sounds, the wind – the levante, the flamenco, the warmth of Andalusian people lives in me…of course those locations influence my novels. I have written a trilogy called Spanish Stories and the trilogy was situated, with a good part, in Spain, but then, while writing, I heard someone from my hometown calling my name, calling my attention, so I got to chuck him in, to silence his cries, to add colour to the Andalucian grey land. I have lived in Sydney since 1992; it is only natural that this city influences my writings, the city where my daughter was born, made her first steps. It is such a multicultural place that it is a great source of constant inspiration when it comes to experimenting with different cultures and customs.

My novels Fiume – The Lost River, Requiem for Barbara, Little Lies, Big Lies and Visconti’s Stories are all set in three or four different countries on two different continents. My characters are often displaced, sometimes confused, often in search of themselves, surely preoccupied with many questions.

What I want to say is that traveling is essential for my writings. I can’t lock myself in my Sydney house and look at the ocean. Some authors need solitude to write. I need life to be presented to me in all its variations and imperfections, with the range of emotions and experiences, as I like to experience things first hand.

I used to write at night for many years, but as the time passes I need more night rest, good sound sleep, but then, early in the morning, I hear that whisper in my ear – time to get up and sit at my desk. Early mornings are quiet and my mind is very alert in the morning.

Are there any words you'd like to impart to fellow writers. Any advice?

The publishing industry isn’t the easiest one; a writer needs sound knowledge of the topic he is writing about, hence good research is needed, a talent, a daily practice of his art and lots of discipline. If you put all those ingredients together, still you need a good portion of luck. Well-established writers follow their own pattern and associations, while new, aspiring writers, probably need some advice. It isn’t easy to give advice to anyone - as there are so many aspiring writers that believe writing to be an easy task, but it isn’t, indeed. Especially when it comes to something ‘deep and meaningful’, one has to be in tune with one’s own being, well read, well informed and equipped with all sorts of worldly experiences not to mention to possess a great imagination.

If someone really aches to be a writer, then one has to count on many rejections, which means to develop a strong, steady character, not to take everything too personally; to understand that their own friends will fall in number and whose comments might be hurtful purposely.  With the wonders of the internet anyone can write anything about your book – hate reviews or even hate mail. On the other, positive side, there are a number of rewards: when good reviews from literary critiques or competent colleagues come your way, when a reader, a person you’ve never met and never will meet, sends you an e-mail telling you that your book has made a lasting impression on them, when you receive an award or just a card from a random person encouraging you to ‘continue to deliver great work.’

For the novice: weigh it, then put your heart where you think it yearns to be and sharpen your tools; we are always delighted when a new, well written story or writer dawns.

Here is the blurb for The Mosaic of the Broken Soul.

She called the lump in Her breast ‘a black pearl’, She called her Mother to nurse Her in the darkest hours, She called memories of the three men She loved at different times of Her life to draw the parallels between seemingly similar situations of betrayal. Who is going to betray Her, who is going to stay...?

She struggles with the meaning of life trying to find it through themes of motherhood, friendship, betrayal, displacement, illness, pain, grief and loss.

She traveled to Andalucia, London, The Isle of Man, where She met colourful characters believing that the unknown can reverse the fragmentation and change reality, believing that all the little broken selves can once again bring the broken pieces into a cohesive mosaic.

This is an excerpt from The Mosaic of the Broken Soul.

Listen to this now:

Some might say it was early in the morning but as I got up with the song of the first birds, ten o’ clock was almost midday for me.

We were sitting on the sun-lit veranda sipping our second cup of coffee.

The day started lazily as all days do on this Earthly quota. I decided to stroll down to the main, cobbled piazza where I was familiar with the sounds of my heels and my heart, and start my search for inspiration in the quick and changing slides produced by casual protagonists.

The doorbell rang.

My Mother asked: “Can you get the door?”

She always gets up first. She always gets the door.

I looked at her again, as if I needed to confirm what I heard, and the doorbell rang again, and again she said in her calm tone: “Get the door, please,” with the clear intention of staying right where she was.  Knowing her ever-accommodating attitude I hesitated a while, then she said: “Hurry up.”

She had a strange expression on her calm face, the one of secret conspiracy - that was what I thought while I was going to answer the door.

I opened the door and a tall man, with dark but mellow eyes, was standing in front of me.

When I recognized his face, or shall I say, his mellow eyes, I thought it was a mirage, for the day was bright and hot already and the air was tremulous and I thought of his tremulous fingers that would gently put away
a strand of my untamed hair.

All my words deserted me at once, especially those that would best accompany my feelings, so he was the one who said: “Will you let me in, or….”

“Of course, of course,” I said, and he walked in.

I took the lead and walked him to the sun-lit veranda where I was sipping the second cup of coffee with my Mother, but as if it was just a dream, the veranda was empty, the table was bare and all I said was:  “Shall we sit?” 

He sat down and crossed his legs.

He crossed his fingers and I crossed my heart.

He smiled.

I asked: “Is this a mirage?”

He said: “I told you, you were my dream.”

I said: “So, we woke in the same dream this morning.”

All he said was: “We did.”

We did not need a lot of words. He looked at the calm surface of the sea and said “So peaceful,” and I repeated “So peaceful.”...

Universal Purchase Link:  https://books2read.com/u/3keegN

 

Author Bio

Branka Čubrilo was born in 1961 in Croatia. At the age of eighteen, she wrote her first novel, I Knew Jane Eyre, and in 1982 it won the Young Writers Award. Soon after, she wrote a sequel to this story called Looking for Jane Eyre. In 1992, Čubrilo moved to Sydney and continued to write short stories and novels. In 1999 the novel As a River (Fiume Corre–Rijeka Tece) was published by Croatian publisher Adamic in her native town of Rijeka. The book received good critiques in Croatian and Italian press. After the Croatian book launch, an Australian one followed. In 2000, the next novel was published, Requiem for Barbara. The book was launched in both Croatia and Sydney. In 2001, a new novel, Little Lies, Big Lies, was published by the same publisher. This was the first volume of a trilogy called Spanish Stories. Čubrilo had obtained a scholarship from the Spanish Ministry of Foreign Affairs to travel to Andalucia to research the cultural and historical settings of Cadiz. 

Čubrilo has written two more novels but she stopped writing and publishing when she encountered serious health issues and the disintegration of her marriage. When she recovered she was able to translate her experiences into a new novel, The Mosaic of the Broken Soul. Over the last 20 years,

Čubrilo has worked as a journalist for various local newspapers in Sydney, writing articles and short stories and conducting interviews. One of her novels was serialized in the magazine Women 21. Čubrilo also worked as a radio producer in Eastside Radios Sydney and Special Broadcasting Services—SBS Sydney, where she has produced a number of programs and series, conducted many interviews and written short stories.

Čubrilo now writes in English and is also translating her earlier novels into English. She lives in Sydney with her daughter Althea.

The Mosaic of the Broken Soul was awarded with "The Book of the Week" and Branka Čubrilo "The Author of the Month" award by Angie's Dairy 2012.  http://angiesdiary.com/bookoftheweek-web/014-botwseptember232012.html

Links:

Website:  http://www.brankacubriloauthor.co.uk/

Facebook:  https://www.facebook.com/branka.cubrilo

Interview:  http://hpub.org/presenting-branka-cubrilo-author-of-the-mosaic-of-the-broken-soul/

Check out our latest Writing in the Modern Age blog article here.