Marie Lavender's Writing in the Modern Age Blog
  • Home
  • About
  • Blog Policy
  • Guest Schedule
  • Contact Us
  • Blog Posts

Writing in the Modern Age


Writing & Guest Author Blog

New Release Feature: Francis H. Powell’s anthology TOGETHER BEHIND FOUR WALLS

9/20/2021

0 Comments

 

Hi, readers! We have a real treat in store for you today, a new release by Francis H. Powell, a talented author! 
 
Congratulations on your latest book! 
 
Let's check out the details, shall we?

Picture
Together Behind Four Walls

With the sudden arrival of Covid 19 and the introduction of a lockdown, many people might have wondered how they would spend their time.

Writers, poets and artists decided to express their feelings in words and pictures during this turbulent period. From humour to deep thoughts Together Behind Four Walls captures the many facets of the human spirit during the pandemic.
 
Proceeds from the book will go to Marie Curie nurses who continued their great work during this crisis. The book, indeed will give all funds raised to palliative care charity Marie Curie.

The book was the idea of writer and teacher Francis H. Powell.
 
As the world first went into lockdown in March 2020, father-of-one Mr. Powell turned to poetry, writing short stories and doing drawings to help “process what was happening”.
 
This, he says, sparked the idea for creating an anthology of Covid-inspired writing which would explore the collective concept of confinement and the “many facets of the human spirit during the pandemic”.
 
The book includes some well-known contributors, including:

Picture
Wendy Cope
Wendy Cope: among other accolades, the author of five collections of adult poetry, a judge of the 2007 Man Booker Prize, and was voted the listeners’ choice in a BBC Radio 4 poll to succeed Ted Hughes as Poet Laureate in 1998.
Roger Robinson: a celebrated writer, musician, and performer, who has won the T.S. Eliot Prize and the Ondaatje Prize.
Peter Finch: an author, historian, poet, and former Chief Executive of First Academi, the Welsh National Literature Promotion Agency and Society of Writers.

Picture
John Hegley
John Hegley: a performance poet, comedian musician and songwriter, who was the presenter of the Border Television series “Word of Mouth”, and has appeared on Never Mind the Buzzcocks.
Picture
Arthur Smith
Arthur Smith: an alternative comedian, presenter and writer, who famously turned down a lifetime achievement award in 2005 from the Perrier Award organizers and won the Panel Prize at the Edinburgh Fringe in 2007.
Neal Zetter: a comedy performance poet, children’s author, and entertainer. He has nearly 30 years of experience performing in locations such as West End comedy clubs and the Royal Festival Hall. He uses the writing and/or performing of poetry to develop literacy, self-expression, confidence, creativity and presentation skills.
Sally Kindberg: award winning Swedish born artist.
 
The book also includes other contributors from around the world.

Picture
Release Date:  September 2021
Genre:  Memoir, Creative Self-Help, Inspirational Anthology


Sounds like quite a read here!

Purchase Link:
https://www.goldcrestbooks.com/together-behind-four-walls/

Here is an excerpt...
Picture
Excerpt 2:
‘The Garden Wall’
by Francis H Powell

 
The garden wall loomed tall and bushes were full with leaves. Her garden was rugged, some might say it needed attention. However it brought her joy, it was her possession, nobody else’s. At the far end of the garden was a cherry tree, which for a short period was covered in white frothy blossoms. It was to her mind the jewel of the garden, despite the fact it did not provide her with many cherries, which for the most part were devoured by greedy birds. There was a rope hanging from one branch, and in summer she could laze in an hammock chair, sheltered from the sun, either reading or just passing the time away.
Surrounding the tree was long grass and some wildflowers, including columbines, harebells, cornflowers, fox-gloves, and, depending on the time of year, wild daffodils. The lawn was shaggy and unkempt, with moss creeping and spreading like an uncontrolled fire. There was an inundation of ivy. She brought some decorations for the garden, ceramic pots and urns, as well as small ethnic sculptures - nothing of any value, but to her they added some character. Both sides of the lawn were lined with an incongruous assortment of flowers and a spindly rose bush that produced orange flame roses. She had a wooden wine barrel full of kale, swiss chard and mustard greens. She brought some rustic garden furniture and would eat outside when the weather permitted.
She’d bought the house to live with her partner at the time, but as they were about to move in together, he’d walked out on her. She had wondered, from time to time when they were together, if he was really the type who would manage the toils of a committed relationship. Of course, he was great fun, amusing, pleasant to be with, but not the type to have to deal with the practical side of life, the humdrum things everybody has to do, part of the daily grind.
Once their relationship got too serious, it was time for him move on; he’d got cold feet, the fun of the relationship died down when too many elements of practicality crept in. He had left her a handwritten note. In truth, it hadn’t amounted to much. At first the overall feeling was sadness, but then anger had set in. Once she read it a few times to take the words in, she screwed it up in her hand and hurled it at her bin in disgust. Then she sat down and wept.

Picture
Please support the book by following it on Facebook:
https://www.facebook.com/togetherbehindfourwalls
or Instagram:
https://www.instagram.com/togetherbehindfourwall/

About Marie Curie Nurses
Picture
Marie Curie nurses in our communities and hospices provide hands on nursing care to patients at the end of their lives. Throughout the Corona Virus Pandemic, our nurses have been at the frontline of care, looking after patients with all terminal illnesses, including caring for people with the virus.
The need for our work has never been greater. At the time when our nurses are in such demand, we have also faced a devastating loss in our income.
When living with a terminal illness it is vital that you can access crucial support, care and information.
Your support in buying this book, is enabling our frontline staff to continue to provide that expert care along with the vital bereavement advice and guidance we also provide to carers and families having to deal with loss and grief.

About author Francis H. Powell
Picture

Born in 1961, in Reading, England, Francis H Powell attended Art Schools, receiving a degree in painting and an MA in printmaking. In 1995, Powell moved to Austria, teaching English as a foreign language while pursuing his varied artistic interests, adding music and writing.
He currently lives in Brittany, France, writing both prose and poetry. Powell has published short stories in the magazine, “Rat Mort” and other works on the internet site “Multi-dimensions.” His two published books are Flight of Destiny and Adventures of Death, Reincarnation and Annihilation.


Buy the Book
https://www.goldcrestbooks.com/together-behind-four-walls/

Wow, this looks fantastic!

Thanks for stopping by to tell us about your new release, Francis. Get your copy of this anthology which is dedicated to the human condition today, readers! 

Picture
https://www.goldcrestbooks.com/together-behind-four-walls/

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

Picture
0 Comments

New Release Feature: Michael Aronovitz’s THE SCULPTOR!

9/10/2021

0 Comments

 

Hi, readers! We have a real treat in store for you today, a new release by Michael Aronovitz, a talented author! 
 
Congratulations on your latest book! 
 
Let's check out the details, shall we?

 book cover image for The Sculptor by Michael Aronovitz depicting a distorted sad female sculpture with a red background hinting at a horror theme

Here is the book blurb for The Sculptor.

At age seven, Michael Leonard Robinson commits his first murder, turning tragedy into an aesthetic. By the time he turns eighteen, he has become an expert with computers, gaming systems, and the art of video imaging. And now in his forties, fully realized, he has long erased his digital footprint. He is thirty years ahead of our most advanced scientists, military ops tacticians, and elite information tech specialists. He is a master of disguise. He can invent projected realities.

Of course, Michael Leonard Robinson could work his dark vision on a global scale, yet he doesn’t need “the world” for a fetishistic thrill, just a police captain, his receptionist, a detective, a rookie junior officer, his sister and mother, and a lot of dark theater. 

Robinson appears to these characters in disguise, film clips, and flashes as he torments them. Their multiple viewpoints are puzzle pieces.

When they fuse to finish the puzzle, the final sculpture becomes clear.

Release Date:  E-book - September 7, 2021 /Paperback - October 12, 2011

Genre:  Serial Killer Mystery

 

Publisher Link:  https://www.skyhorsepublishing.com/9781949102543/the-sculptor/

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

 

Here is an excerpt...

 

Chapter 24

Beauty in the Eye of the Ripper’s Beholder

 

Captain Canfield ran into the storm. Cold stingers to the face, the front lawn was muddy, his clothing lay on him like lead. It was dark, the wind shaping the rain in what looked like the billowing cloak of some massive dark horseman, with intermittent moonlight coming through the road foliage and cemetery border trees.

Canfield took a position in the grass, gun leveled. He didn’t have a clear shot, not as a sniper would have had with a rifle with a scope.

Across the street on the sidewalk was the huge figure. He was smiling. His feet were spread, his left arm clamped around Erika’s waist, his right palm pressed to her mouth. She was straining hard, arms pinned to her sides, feet kicking insane bicycle pedals against his thick legs. Her T-shirt had ridden up; you could see the shape of her waist. Her ponytail had come loose, and wet strands were plastered to her forehead and jawline like skull-fissures.

The big man spoke. His hat pushed a shadow across his forehead, but below that his skin looked bad—spoiled and cracked like a leper’s. It was the caked-on makeup. The moisture out here had begun to erode it.

“Captain,” he called. “Advantage perp. You can’t risk discharging your firearm. And your prerogative is clear. As the first officer on the scene, you are to look after the safety of the victim before securing the arrest. And if the citizen endures physical harm at the crime scene, you are obligated to care for the injured before arresting the offender.” His grin became monstrous.

“Officer,” he said, “I’d like to report an injury.”

He took the hand covering her mouth and groped it up the side of her face. She squirmed, kicking harder, and he pawed at her, fingering. She jerked her head, and he smeared the cat’s eye makeup in a hash-mark up her left temple. He pulled back across, and she let loose a gargled scream, kicking like a frenzied horsefly held by the wings. He mashed his hand-heel into the other side of her face, slipping down along the bone like wet marble, and this time he streaked thick mascara onto her cheek, hooking down like an athlete’s smeared eye-black. He made an adjustment, and with the base of his thumb, his ring finger, and pinkie he cupped her chin, holding her still. He had to work it like the old Spock Vulcan “live-long-and-prosper” sign, but he spread his middle and index fingers back across the bridge of her nose, then started spider-crawling them up toward her right eye.

Canfield screamed “No!”

The monster’s two fingers were poised like a claw, uneven tongs.

He pushed in, over the eyeball, deep into the socket. Blood squirted up over his middle knuckles. She screamed herself raw, her kicking went nuclear. He let go of her mouth so he could work in the thumb, forming a pincer-grip. For a bare moment it cleared the horrific sightline; he dug in his fingers, and Canfield could see Erika’s eyeball slip from one side of the socket to the other as the monster worked in deep, trying to get to the back of it. Blood wept down his wrist, but the rain washed it away, making the effect seem ghostlike and illusory. He yanked, her head jerked forward, give, but no climax. He couldn’t pull it home, stubborn muscles and nerve fibers proving their elasticity, and he re-angled his elbow, bunched, set, and ripped that eye straight out of its socket.

She stopped kicking.

Thick blood welled in the dark crater and poured down her cheek. The rain doused and diluted it, ebbing down her face with the beat of her heart, tendrils and threads gyrating there on her cheekbone like algae floating off coral in a current. She was twitching, hanging there in his arms. He slapped her cheek and she jolted awake, shrieking incoherently, body in spasm, the broken doll, the lunatic stage-puppet.

He set her on her feet in front of him, bending his knees so she was still mostly blocking the line of fire. Both big hands moved to her hips to steady her, and he walked her back to an oak tree.

He whispered something in her ear. It took a moment. Then he smacked her hard on the ass and barked:

“Go!”

He ducked behind the wide tree and she ran, faster than one would have ever expected, moaning and crying, lumbering desperately away toward Sproul Road.

Canfield pounded after her, grass to driveway. Cutting across the corner of the neighbor’s lawn, he noticed quite academically that they had been gardening, planting shrubs. Passing through the line of them at the perimeter, he stepped on a trowel. It hurt, fucked his rhythm, and his ankles banged together; he went down. He hit the street, skinned an elbow, quick-rolled, and somehow managed to cradle the gun without having it blow a hole in his stomach. He didn’t allow himself time to recover. He sprang up and broke into a straight sprint, thinking, “Knees high, push hard, strong kick, arms in sync,” and by the time he caught up, she was almost to the streetlamp. She stumbled and collapsed, trying to grab hold on her way down, and he caught her from behind just in time to save her from falling onto her face. He went to the ground with her, held her, turned her so he could look at her.

She’d been truly violated, disfigured, it was real, no illusions. She had two faces now, the left profile all sleek cuts and angles, the makeup bird-winged up off her left eye giving her a futuristic look like a runway model, yet turned to the right, her profile was that of a ghost-witch, her long skull and jawline accented by the rough crater peering at you with blank recognition. She looked very much like the kind of thing you bought in an island hut, stuck on a voodoo stick with beads hanging off of the fist-guard. She was sobbing, still convulsing.

Canfield wanted to comfort her, but he didn’t know the words. He wanted to give her some kind of gentlemanly reassurance, but he didn’t know that song either. What came out was mechanical, almost programmed.

“What did he say to you?” he said softly, flatly. He felt terribly about it, but he was who he was.

“What?” she said. “What? When, Bill, what?”

“Easy,” he said. “What did he say to you in your ear? Just now. I’ll catch him, but I need all the data.”

She started weeping again and buried her face in Bill Canfield’s chest, shoulders shaking.

“He told me,” she said, voice muffled, “that I had to run hard, I had to run like the wind, toward Sproul Road. He said that I had to run straight into traffic. He said he was going to flush my right eye down a toilet, and if I didn’t run as fast as I could he’d hunt me down, find me at the hospital, at work, in the parking lot, the grocery store, my apartment.”

She pulled back and looked up at Canfield with her left eye.

“He promised he would give me round two,” she said. “He promised he’d rip out the other one.”

 

So, what are readers saying about this book?

★★★★★ “The Sculptor is one of the most grimly terrifying serial killers in recent literature.” - Horror scholar and editor ST Joshi

 

Whoa...what a disturbing teaser!


Get your copy of this serial killer mystery today, readers!

 

About the Author:

 

Michael Aronovitz is a college professor, rock critic, and author of dark fiction. His published novels include Alice Walks, The Witch of the Wood, and Phantom Effect, his collections – Seven Deadly Pleasures and The Voices in Our Heads. Aronovitz has published more than forty short stories, and has appeared in magazines and anthologies such as Weird Tales, Searchers After Horror, and Apostles of the Weird. His short story titled “How Bria Died” was featured in The Year’s Best Dark Fantasy and Horror, 2011, Prime Books, and currently, Aronovitz has much of the above-mentioned work being translated into German and re-released by Firma Edition Barenklau. His lifetime collection of novellas and short stories, titled Dancing with Tombstones, will be published by Cemetery Dance Publications in the fall of 2021, and his fourth novel titled The Sculptor will be released by Night Shade / Skyhorse in the fall of 2021.

Author Links:

Website: michaelaronovitz.com

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/michael.aronovitz

Twitter: https://twitter.com/michaelaronovi2

Amazon Author Page: http://amzn.to/2yprVlr

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/551323.Michael_Aronovitz

FictionDB: https://www.fictiondb.com/author/michael-aronovitz~99909.htm

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

Picture
0 Comments

Interview with Author DJ Swykert

7/22/2013

0 Comments

 

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?
book cover image for The Death of Anyone a mystery thriller novel by DJ Swykert depicting a beautiful dead woman lying on the ground with a film noir impression on the gray background and book title  

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
  photo of author DJ Swykert

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.

Picture
0 Comments

Interview with Author Steve Christie

7/15/2013

0 Comments

 

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?
book cover image for Good Deed by Steve Christie depicting an close up shot of a chess piece on a chess board  

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

picture of author Steve Christie

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.

Picture
0 Comments

Interview with Author Susan Mac Nicol

7/8/2013

0 Comments

 

My guest today is Susan Mac Nicol. Hello, Susan! 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?
  
book cover for Together in Starlight by Susan Mac Nicol depicting a mysterious handsome man staring straight at his audience

My latest publication is called Together in Starlight. It’s the second in my Starlight trilogy. It came out in February this year. 

Together in Starlight continues the story of Bennett Saville, an actor living in London with his fiancée, Cassie Wallace, a woman who’s ten years older than him. They met each other through fairly tragic circumstances in the first book, Cassandra by Starlight. After a rather tumultuous beginning, they’re still together. 

Bennett is on the road to stardom, being catapulted to fame through his theatre work in London and his current project as the leading man in a remake of ‘Lost Horizon’. Cassie is an astute business woman, who provides the love and support her lover needs in the crazy world of show business. She tends to put the brakes on him when he gets all ‘prima donna’ which is pretty often.

This couple get embroiled in any kind of trouble you can think of, I have to say. From suicides of jumping off motorway bridges, to schizophrenic mothers and psychotic stalkers, ex-husbands with a grudge and supernatural happenings, Cassie and Bennett are in the thick of it. They have a tendency to attract kooks and trouble in equal measures.

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

The series as a whole was prompted by two things. One was an incident in my home town of Essex, when some idiot threw a concrete bucket from a foot bridge onto the motorway and badly injured the woman driving under the bridge at the time. The other was the presence of a rather wonderful actor here in the UK called Benedict Cumberbatch, who I love, and he just had to be the role model for the character of Bennett Saville. I am what is known in the ‘Cumber’ trade as a ‘CumberCougar’ and I follow this young actor’s career with interest and more than a few drools down my chin. I’ve never fangirled before. This whole obsession with an actor thing is very new to me.

Once I had my very own virtual Benedict Cumberbatch in the form of Bennett, and had a writer’s privilege to do absolutely anything I wanted with him, I began writing the story. Of course, the fact that Cassie is my own age has absolutely nothing to do with anything. I promise. Honest. I was not sitting there writing steamy sex scenes, thinking of….well, you know.

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

I’ve always written. Songs, poetry and novels. I have some poetry published on etherbooks and of course I have two full length novels and two short stories already published with my publisher, Boroughs Publishing Group. 

(*Gives a wry grin*) It appears that once I started I wasn’t able to stop.  I’ve now written nine full length novels, three of which are in the pipeline and contracted to Boroughs, awaiting publication. The other four are all completed, just waiting for an available slot to thrust at my poor editor and say , "Here, Jill, want another one?" I love to see her squirm…

I’ve also written a screen play based on my debut novel, Cassandra by Starlight, which I’d like to show around and see if I can stir some interest in making a TV series. But that’s a little ways away at the moment

Do you have any favorite authors? 

I do. My favourite author is Stephen King, creator of the slavering beast, Cujo and the psychotic, child eating clown, Pennywise. I love the way he writes, his characters and his descriptive scenes. I’m also a huge Jonathan Kellerman fan, and love his ‘Alex Delaware’ novels. But I’m also an avid reader of gay male romances and soak them up like the proverbial sponge. I have a lot of favourite authors in this genre and it’s really hard to pick one as being the top one for me. But if I did, it would be the amazing Josh Lanyon. He writes stories that make you feel the characters are real, interspersed with a lot of witty humour and I love that in a book. Kindle Alexander is another one of my absolute ‘must haves’. Along with A. J. Rose, L A. Witt, Sue Brown, Sage Marlowe, Rory Ni Colleain, Harper Fox, Susan Laine, Barbara Elsborg -the list goes on. (If I didn’t mention one of you, sorry, rest assured you are all still loved. I just ran out of breath.)

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

Hmm. I thrive on chaos when I write. So where better than to sit than in the corner of the couch in the lounge, with husband, daughter, son and dog constantly on the move, asking me questions I don’t hear because - honestly? I’m not bloody listening – and hearing the blare of the television, the echo of my daughter’s Walkman or whatever it is she’s got, and the panting of the dog as he’s just come from a walk and is knackered. Oh yes, it’s just as well I like chaos in my house. I have a study, but if I went up there, my family would never see me.

I have a full time day job in the lovely city of Cambridge. So I get home about six p.m., eat the food someone has prepared (I don’t cook much – luckily my family enjoy it but it’s not of my favourite things to do unless it’s heating up a microwave dinner). I then sit down, laptop on lap, and write until midnight, one am. Then it’s up as six a.m. to start the day again. This, ladies and gentlemen, is my life. I do love it, but I’d rather not have the day job, be in the country somewhere in my country manor, gazing out over the grounds while the handsome groundsman walks bare chested across the field with his gun.

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

I belong to a writing circle and one of my buddies has this plastered across the top of his blog. “Writers write. The rest make excuses.” It’s sort of become our circle mantra. The best thing you can do as a writer is put the words down. Don’t wait for a good time, till the baby’s stopped teething, till the kids have left the house, the robins have roosted or the cake has baked. Just sit down, arse to chair and either pick up a pencil or pen and write on paper, or type onto a computer. But don’t procrastinate.

The other thing I’d strongly advise is start getting ready to be a guru of social networking. If you think your book is going to be published and the publisher is going to do everything for you – think again. Authors nowadays have a huge responsibility to market themselves and their skills themselves. An author needs to learn the skills of promotion and there’s no time to start building that ‘author community’ like the present. 

Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest, Amazon, Shelfari, Goodreads, tumblr, Wordpress, LinkedIn, Google+, Instagram, Flickr, Soundcloud, Vimeo, YouTube –the list goes on. A personal website is a good choice and, of course, a blog.

I run seven Facebook accounts for role playing activities with my characters. I have nine Twitter accounts, ten Gmail addresses and heaven knows what else.  I am constantly trying to remember who I actually am. I also administer three Facebook pages. So it’s an intensive, hands on job but it has to be done.

The writing, dear writers, is the easy bit. The work comes after that first book has been signed for. You may as well get a head start now.

Here is the blurb for Together in Starlight.

For superstar actor Bennett Saville and his fiancée Cassandra Wallace, returning to “The Val” theatre in London means greed, lust, and ghosts from the past—and that’s off stage.

Bennett Saville is sexy. At the height of his career, the English star of stage and screen is everything a woman might desire, as fiancée Cassandra Wallace well knows. They’ve seen the world together, from L.A. to Shangri La. Yet shadows persist, even in the spotlight. At home they face lust, greed, and ghosts from their pasts—and that’s offstage. There is also “The Val”. Bennett’s aged London theatre holds a mystery four centuries old, cast in starlight, waiting to be shown. Intensely personal, impossibly passionate, that play must go on…and Cassie and Bennett must see it through together.

Here's an excerpt from Together in Starlight.

Bennett Saville stood at the window of his hotel room looking out over the Hengduan Mountains surrounding the mystical town of Shangri-La in Tibet. He’d been there nearly six weeks now filming his new movie, and had yet to tire of the view of the valley and the towering mountains that seemed to surround the hotel like a massive rock shield. The October sun shone down on the valley and the green fields surrounding the hotel.

Across the river in the distance he could see the small figures of farmers as they went about their business. Small white forms of sheep were speckled like popcorn about the grassy hills. He sighed, stretching his lanky frame, wincing as his muscles protested against the activity.

The day’s filming had taken its toll on him, not least of which was his backside from sitting on a mule most of the day. The mule had not particularly taken to him. He supposed wryly that when two immoveable and stubborn objects met there was bound to be some friction. He turned as someone swore behind him, and saw his fiancée, Cassie Wallace, struggling under the weight of her now packed suitcase as she manoeuvred it off the bed. She strained to pull the suitcase over to the door where it would wait to be taken down by the hotel porters in the morning.

He observed her with raised eyebrows. Despite his suggestion that she get a suitcase with wheels, she’d insisted on taking her tried and trusted old green one—the one with no wheels and which in itself was a fair weight even without the mountain of clothes inside it.

Cassie muttered as she gave the case one final kick in annoyance and looked up at him.

Her eyes challenged him to say something, anything. He turned away with a hidden smile.

She flopped down onto the bed and groaned. “I can’t believe we have to leave tomorrow.”

She opened her arms and spread them out behind her, her T–shirt straining at the move and showing the generous curves beneath. Seeing Bennett’s predatory look, she hastily sat up again in case he had any ideas about pouncing on her. They were due downstairs for their last lunch together with the rest of the cast and crew in about five minutes.

“I thought you were looking forward to getting home?” Bennett said. “You’ve been itching to get back to business. That phone of yours hasn’t stopped since we left London.”

He sat down on the bed beside her, his green eyes observing her, admiring her tanned skin from the sunshine of the Tibetan summer and the small freckles scattered across her cheeks and nose. Her strawberry-blond hair, worn long but now even longer past her shoulders, had streaks of gold where the sun had bleached it.

All in all, he thought the six-week holiday she’d had whilst he was filming had done her good. After the events of the last twenty-one months together, it was good to see her looking so perky, healthy and downright sexy.

She nodded. “I know. I am. It’s just that it’s so peaceful here. I know you’ve been filming but I’ve never seen you look so relaxed either. This trip has been good for both of us.”

He regarded her ruefully. “What with all the past events, you and your car accident, Eric’s death, Mum’s psychotic episode and you landing up in hospital again and that bloody Laura woman stalking me, I’m surprised we’re not both basket cases.”

She sighed. “I can’t believe our Tibet trip is nearly over. I know when you get back you’ll be busy filming in the London studios—Waverly is it?”

Bennett nodded. “It’s a huge and very sophisticated studio in Chalk Farm. It’ll be great seeing how the rest of the film comes together there.”

“Perhaps, Bennett, when we get home, I might be able to convince you not to fall asleep with such regularity at your desk,” Cassie said drily.

He grinned. Whilst he’d been in Tibet, many were the nights he’d fallen asleep in front of his laptop, his script open, various research websites being bookmarked and copious notes in his untidy, almost illegible scrawl in the margins of his script. He knew it drove Cassie to distraction.

“You know me, Cass. I’m a little obsessive.”

Cassie stared at him in amusement. “A little? Bennett, you disappear in the middle of the night to God knows where, for hours on end, stalking about, talking to yourself and looking like a crazy person.”

He smiled, knowing this to be true.

Cassie continued her diatribe. “You wander up into the mountains, down by the river and I never quite know where I’m going to find you or when you’ll be back. It can be quite dangerous out there.”

He shrugged. “When the muse is on me, Cass, I can’t help it. I need to get things perfect or it doesn’t work for me.”

“That’s all well and good, sweetheart, but if you hadn’t noticed, ignoring me doesn’t make me go away. And you can be such an autocrat. It’s your way or no way.”

He raised his eyebrows at her. “An autocrat? Cassie, that’s a bit cruel.”

Bennett grinned at the exasperated face of his fiancée. “I guess we should be getting downstairs for lunch. I was planning on an afternoon siesta with you but judging from the sound your stomach is making, I imagine you’re hungry again. I can’t make love to a starving woman. It’s too distracting.”

He stood up and reached out a hand to her. She took it as she stood up and they
walked out of the bedroom, closing the door behind them.

Downstairs in the outside courtyard the lunch buffet was in full swing. The full cast and crew of Lost Horizon were helping themselves to a spread of both Chinese and Tibetan local fare including roasted yak which Cassie hadn’t wanted to try. Bennett found it delicious. But despite that, Cassie refused to taste it. He acknowledged that neither of them had developed the taste for the local butter tea.

Mingmei Cheng, Bennett’s co-star and love interest in the film, smiled when she saw them, wandering over to join them. She was stunningly beautiful, a slim exotic Mandarin woman with long black hair and small hands that waved like butterflies when she talked. Bennett was well aware that the one part about the making of the film Cassie couldn’t get used to was the on-camera love scenes and intimate moments between him and Mingmei. Although the film’s director, John Lammington, managed them tastefully and there was only what was needed on show, nothing gratuitous, he knew she still couldn’t bear to watch Bennett and Mingmei together in that way.

“Most of the time you’re half naked,” she’d grumbled when they’d talked about it recently.

He’d smiled at her discomfort. “Cassie, mostly I have my shirt off. My pants and everything else are still on for most of the scenes. And when they’re not, well, there’s not really any contact. Honest.”

She’d scowled. “Well, I still don’t like watching it. Mingmei is so beautiful and tiny and it just looks wrong when she has her hands all over your bare chest. Sometimes I want to scratch her porcelain face. That makes me a really bad person, Bennett.”

It hadn’t helped that he’d chuckled loudly at her comments. “You jealous harpy. You know I’m acting. I promise.”

Seeing them now, Mingmei smiled at them sweetly. “Bennett, Cassie,” she said softly in her lilting dialect. “I’m glad you decided to join us. I thought perhaps you might be having a siesta.” She smiled slyly.

Bennett smiled, watching Cassie’s face flush instantly. He did tend to have a proclivity towards afternoon ‘siestas’ with her when he could get them and it appeared the whole
crew knew about them.

“No, we were hungry and looking forward to lunch. I shall miss all of this when we get home.” Cassie waved a hand around at the tables laden with food.

Bennett looked at her with raised eyebrows. “The way you’ve been eating whilst we’ve been here I shall have to employ you your very own chef when we get home to keep you stocked up on Kung Pao chicken and roast pig.”

He frowned worriedly. “Actually, thinking about it, I think we should call the airport and pay to increase our baggage allowance. We might need to offset it against the extra weight in the plane when you get in.”

Cassie punched him hard in the arm making sure her knuckle was extended. He yelped and rubbed his arm but the smile didn’t leave his face. Mingmei watched on with amusement.

“You bastard!” Cassie hissed. “I can’t believe you just said that to me.”

Bennett realised he’d perhaps overstepped the boundary. Cassie was sensitive about the fact that she was older than him and always told him she had to work harder to keep her figure in shape. He loved it just the way it was.

He pulled her close, planting a kiss on top of her head. “You look wonderful to me, Cassie, just the way you are. I love your curves.”

She wasn’t mollified by his words, glaring at him fiercely. She was stopped from responding as John Lammington came up and slapped Bennett on the back.

“Bennett! Glad you could join us. We thought you’d gone for a lie down. I thought you might have been a bit stiff after riding that crazy animal this morning.” 

He winked at Cassie who felt her face blush red. The double entendre was not lost on anyone. Mingmei looked down, smiling.

Bennett chuckled softly as Cassie went even redder. “No, no siesta. The woman needed feeding again.”

He made sure to stay out of the way of Cassie’s fist as he wandered over to the table to pile a plate with food. Cassie muttered a rude but very audible swear word at him under her breath, making sure she piled her plate high. She sat next to Bennett at the long communal table. He was amused at her defiant stand.

“So, Bennett. Looking forward to getting back to London and the dreary October weather?” John took a swig of the local Lhasa beer he was partial to.

Bennett shrugged. “I’ve enjoyed it here. It’s been an incredible experience. But Dylan is chomping at the bit to get his latest production up and running. He opens in December and needs some help. So I’ll be giving him a hand at the Val in between filming the rest of Lost.” He looked at John wryly. “Assuming I have any free time at all, that is. You can be a real slave driver.”

The Val as it was lovingly known, real name the Valedictorian, was the theatre that Bennett, Cassie and Dylan owned in London. Dylan Donahue was Bennett’s best friend and business partner, and Bennett had given Cassie thirty-five percent of his shares when they got engaged last year. He’d thought it the perfect engagement gift. He knew she loved the ambience, the quirkiness, camaraderie and drama that went on there.

John chuckled. “Now, Bennett. That coming from one perfectionist to another.” John helped himself to another beer. “Isn’t Dylan’s play some sort of musical about some Australian lady gang?”

Bennett nodded. “It’s about the Razor Gang wars in the mid-1920s in Sydney. He’s done a hell of a job in getting something like that into a musical, but I think it works.”

John grinned. “I understand you aren’t contributing to the stage show. Not your ‘cup of tea’.” He mocked Bennett’s accent.

Bennett shook his head ruefully. “I’m not fond of singing in public and I’m not the greatest dancer. I’ll stick with drama rather than make a fool of myself trying to belt out a tune.”

“I can vouch for that statement,” muttered Cassie. Bennett saw she was still unforgiving about the weight comment. “Bennett has a tendency to be very noisy when he’s trying to sing Pavarotti in the shower.”

“But I do have other talents you like in the shower, sweetheart.” Bennett regarded her lazily, not wanting to be outdone. He sniggered as Cassie once again blushed pink.

John gave a great laugh. “You two really keep us all amused with your bickering, you know that? It’s been like having two teenagers on set.”

He stood up. “Well, packing beckons. I still have a ton of things to sort out before we leave tomorrow afternoon.” He looked gloomy. “I suppose we’ll be taking that dodgy tour bus to the local airport and then flying to Lhasa Airport for the flight home. It’s going to be a long couple of days to get home.”

John hadn’t enjoyed the bus ride to the hotel, having white-knuckled it all the way due to the driver’s fairly erratic driving narrowly missing the long drops over the side of the mountains. He sighed. “See you kids later.”

Bennett sat back in his chair, closing his eyes, enjoying the rays of the sun on his face. Hearing a little voice beside him, he opened his eyes to see little Soong Li, the daughter of one of the hotel managers, smiling shyly at Cassie as she held out a small carved wooden bird.

Cassie smiled at her as she sat up. “Hello Soong Li. This is beautiful. Is it for me?”

She leaned over and took the small bird gently from the child’s outstretched hand. “Did you make this yourself?”

The little girl nodded. “I want you to take it back home with you,” she said in slightly broken English. “To remind you of me and Shangri-La.”

Cassie often took the child on her travels with her, mule riding, climbing the nearby mountains and wading down in the river collecting any item of interest the pair could find. The little girl had taken a shine to Cassie and was constantly fascinated by the colour of her hair and the freckles appearing on her face.

Bennett watched the two together now, seeming so comfortable with each other. Cassie couldn’t have any children of her own. She’d been unable to do so even before his mother had attacked Cassie one evening and injured her so badly that it had simply cemented the fact that Cassie would never be a mother.

The closest they’d get would be Bennett’s five-year-old nephew, Sean, who lived with Bennett’s father at the family home. Bennett and Cassie enjoyed taking him out occasionally but were always glad to see him home to Edward’s.

Cassie hugged the child and Soong Li ran off to join her friends playing nearby. She looked over at Bennett, smiling. “If you’re finished stuffing your face, I suppose we could go for a walk down by the river. It’ll be the last chance we get.”

He extended his arm to her and they walked out of the hotel courtyard into the dusty road leading down to the river. It was quiet, the clouds settling low upon the horizon and the warm breeze slightly unsettling Cassie’s hair, causing it to blow across her face.

She brushed it back absentmindedly as she walked. “Have you spoken to Sean recently?”

Bennett was in the habit of calling his nephew with an update on how many yaks he had seen, what the stupid mule had done next and generally painting a vivid picture for the child of what it was like to be in Shangri-La.

Bennett nodded. “I spoke to him last night. Apparently he’d had a bad day at school, some kid pinched his lunch and when Sean found out, he punched him in the nose. Mary had to go down to the school and placate them.” He grinned. “I’d say he’s definitely a Saville.”

Cassie kissed him affectionately on the chin. “Given his uncle’s temper, it sounds like the fruit hasn’t fallen far from the tree albeit a little removed.”

Bennett’s temper was legendary, something he sometimes struggled to control. The last year had certainly tested this to the limit. More than once Cassie had found herself having to defuse him.

They’d reached the river now, sitting down on the grassy bank, taking off their shoes and planting their feet in the cool running water.

“Did you ever think we’d be where we are now?” asked Bennett suddenly. “I mean sitting here together in Shangri-La in Tibet. Sometimes it all seems rather surreal.” He glanced at Cassie as she watched the water run over her feet.

“You know I believe things happen for a reason,” she said slowly. “Everything has a purpose. I can’t think of anything I’d rather be doing now than sitting here with you in this magical place. January last year I was just plain Cassie Wallace. Now I’m Cassie Wallace, engaged to a young, filthy rich, sexy man in her bed. Who could possibly have seen that coming?”

She leaned over and kissed him. He pulled her towards him and the kiss grew deeper and more intense. Bennett wound his fingers through her hair, pulling her closer, enjoying the feel of her warm body and the sunshine on his back. After a few hot and heavy moments they pulled apart.

“I think it’s time for that siesta,” Cassie said huskily, running her fingers down his chest, pausing on his flat stomach and slipping her hands under his loose shirt.

He drew a breath as her hands found the warm skin beneath. “I certainly don’t think we should carry on here, we have an audience,” he murmured, kissing her ear, his tongue darting in and out causing her to shiver.

Cassie looked up in panic and Bennett chuckled. “There’s no one watching, Cassie. I mean that lot over there.” He pointed to where half a dozen curious yaks were congregating by the river bank, observing them through large brown eyes. Cassie giggled when she saw them.

“Whilst I could quite gladly ravish you here and now, I don’t relish the thought of doing so with them watching me. I don’t like competition.” Bennett stood up, picking up his shoes.

Cassie did the same and together they walked back up to the hotel. The lobby was fairly quiet. Everyone was probably in their rooms packing for tomorrow’s early get away. Their hotel room was cool and the breeze wafted in through the open windows. No sooner had they closed the door than Bennett pulled Cassie towards him, his mouth finding hers again, his tongue running its way across her top lip and finally finding its way into her mouth.

Universal Reader link:  https://books2read.com/u/mB2vEM

 

Author Bio  

  picture of author Susan Mac Nicol

Sue Mac Nicol was born in Leeds, Yorkshire, in the United Kingdom. At the age of eight, her family moved to Johannesburg, South Africa where she stayed for nearly thirty years before arriving back in the UK in December 2000.

Sue works full time in the field of regulatory compliance for a company in the financial services industry in Cambridge. But she still finds time to work until the small hours of the morning doing what she loves best – writing. Since her first novel, Cassandra by Starlight, was penned, Sue has written the other two books in her Starlight trilogy, six other novels, two short stories and a screen play based on Cassandra. Her passion is keeping herself busy creating worlds and characters for her readers to enjoy.

Sue is a member of Romance Writers of America and Romantic Novelists Association in the UK. She is also a member of a rather unique writing group, called the Talliston Writer’s Circle, which in itself has a story all of its own to tell and lives in the rural village of Bocking, in Essex, with her family.

Her plan is to keep writing as long as her muse sits upon her shoulder. Her dream is to one day get that big old house in the English countryside overlooking a river, where she can write all day and continue to indulge her passion for telling stories.

Website - www.susanmacnicol.com

Twitter - @SusanMacnicol7

Facebook - http://www.facebook.com/susiemax77

Blog -  http://susanmacnicol.wordpress.com/

 

The Whole 'Starlight Series': 

book cover image for Cassandra by Starlight by Susan Mac Nicol depicting an elegant man and woman standing together but she is turned away

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

cover image for Together in Starlight

Universal Reader Link:  https://books2read.com/u/mB2vEM

book cover image for Forever in Starlight by Susan Mac Nicol depicting a couple standing with a starry background this is the final book of the trilogy

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

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

Picture
0 Comments

Interview with Author Rebecca L. Frencl

7/1/2013

0 Comments

 

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?

book cover for Ribbons of Moonlight by Rebecca L. Frencl depicting a dark haired young woman in a fancy dress turned away looking at a mysterious ray of light in the middle of the forest

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 20th century miss dragged back to the 18th 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  

   picture of author Rebecca L. Frencl smiling face woman dining out with friends

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 6th 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 8th 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.

book cover image for The Shattered Prism by Rebecca L. Frencl depicting a woman dressed in a Medieval costume holding a sword while another lady plays the harp with magical swirls dancing around

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

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

Picture
0 Comments

Reflections on Shameless Ambition by Robert Fanshaw

6/27/2013

0 Comments

 

Hi, readers! Today we have Robert Fanshaw with us and he is going to give us his reflections on his recently published romantic suspense book, Shameless Ambition.  


           Marie's post (May 3rd) - the relationship between reality and writing - made some new connections for me. I believe good writing has an underlying, but sometimes hidden, connection with reality, whatever the story or subject.

My work as a barrister means that I am dealing day to day with clumsy attempts to pin down reality. If something gets as far as going to court, the eventual outcome, the decision of the judge, becomes ‘the truth’. But anyone who has spent a lot of time in court will tell you that the outcome depends more on the balance of forces than the holy grail of what really happened. The little guy or gal doesn’t often win. If they do, it’s because their representatives have woven a convincing story. This is why I find there’s a synergy between my job in the legal system and my work as a writer.

            Like most writers, I do it for love. Psychologists would probably say that Shameless Ambition is a transparent attempt to get more of my wife Caroline’s attention. The legal work funds my real passion, and I am as grateful for that as any humble artist who relies on a sponsor to keep food on the table and a roof over their head. I love all kinds of writing. I’m not a poet, but I get great satisfaction when a poem materialises from somewhere.

            I love the freedom of the blog: no deadline but your own; no rules but your own; no financial transaction involved; not necessarily even any readers. But it is so wonderful when someone is intrigued by the story and asks a question like ‘Is your wife really called Caroline?’ Readers know that events are reordered or condensed, names are changed, and imagination fills in the gaps, but they are also looking for underlying truth in anything they read.

            By the way, the answer is ‘Yes’ because I cannot think of her by any other name, except Bluebell, the name she adopts when her exhibitionist tendencies come to the fore. We went for a walk in the woods near our home in Surrey the other day. There was more than a hint of blue under the greening trees, the bluebells having decided the freeze has passed and it is now safe to reach for the sky.

            A simple walk, but it encapsulated the pleasure and pain of our relationship because, although not a word was spoken about Erik, we both knew that her ‘stage name’ came from an affair she re-kindled not long before we were married. She met an old flame and they made love amongst the bluebells. I found out. She said it didn’t mean anything but I was jealous just the same and the mere mention of Erik’s name is enough to put me in a bad mood. Unfortunately he won a prestigious prize with a series of paintings based on the photo sketches he made of Caroline.

            But the tone of Shameless Ambition is not, I hope, jealous. Caroline and I have a modern marriage and work on our boundaries all the time. I try to put that across in the book. Things might hurt, we might be embarrassed by our own behaviour, but you have to learn and move on. There’s no point in throwing the Botticelli Venus out with the gilded frame. Yes, Caroline really does have long red hair like on the cover of the book.           

And without giving too much away, I do have my moments of triumph in the book. Caroline’s involvement with a plot to influence a key committee in the European Central Bank required some investigative work on my part. I was able to put my legal training to good use.

            Returning to the issue of underlying truth, it has been said to me that some of the events described in the book are far-fetched. I think those people cannot have been reading the newspapers because the reported behaviour of some bankers, politicians, and business leaders over the years leading up to the current economic turmoil in Europe makes one shake one’s head in disbelief. My account is moderate in comparison.

            Marie describes in her post (May 3rd) the joy of writing. I recognise that joy, and for me, it’s also therapeutic. Is it an escape from reality or an escape into reality? No reason why it can’t be both, simultaneously. There are times waiting in airports or sleepless at night when it’s great to escape into another reality. My goal as a writer is to make that journey into another reality as easy as possible for the reader. I don’t want anything to jar. I want things to happen at the right speed. I try to give the minimum amount of descriptive detail consistent with teleporting the reader to another place. I want the characters to surprise, engage, and entertain the reader as much as they do me. But keep your hands off Caroline, please.


Robert is also treating us to a blurb and an extract from Shameless Ambition.

book cover image for Shameless Ambition by Robert Fanshaw depicting a redheaded woman in a dark fancy dress turned away from the audience as to exhibit an air of mystery
Blurb

High-flying executive Caroline and barrister Robert have been married for three years, and the demands of work have left little time for their relationship. Caroline is angling for a promotion, which will mean spending more time away in Germany. On a management development course in Spain, Caroline is tempted into indiscretions with some of her colleagues, a fact that is noticed by course leader and former chief executive Melody Bigger.

Melody sees in Caroline aspects of her younger self and a barely suppressed exhibitionism. She draws Caroline into a plot to put pressure on Von Wolfswinkle, the German delegate to the European Central Bank. His opposition to Eurobonds is causing hardship across southern Europe, and Caroline is inveigled into a peculiar relationship with Von Wolfswinkle based on his voyeurism and her exhibitionism. Melody wants Caroline to influence the banker’s recommendations to the forthcoming European economic summit.

As Caroline is drawn into a seedy world of private parties for bankers and politicians, she soon realises she has damaged her reputation and her marriage. How will she ever be able to face her colleagues and her husband again?

 

Extract


Caroline and work colleague Clive have been partnered in an orienteering exercise designed to develop leadership skills. Unfortunately, they get lost by a mountain stream…

 

Clive inspected his bleeding hand. “You may as well take them off. A few minutes on one of these rocks and they’ll be dry again. And in any case, if it’s not impolite of me to notice, the water has made them transparent.”

“I’m glad to see you’re living up to your reputation, Clive.” Nonetheless, she wriggled out of the wet underwear, and he did the same with his shorts.

“Well it’s not as if I haven’t had the pleasure of observing your features before.”

“What features?”

“Last night, in the pool. I sent you a message complimenting you on the performance. Don’t you check your emails?”

Caroline shut her eyes in the hope of shutting out this new piece of information. She decided denial was the best policy.

“Clive, you are an utter pervert. What have you been imagining?”

“I will show you exactly what I have been imagining.” He delved into the rucksack for his notepad and whizzed his fingers across the screen a few times. He passed her the pad and she was mortified to see a crystal clear video clip of a naked woman pointing her ring finger at the camera and then using the finger to good effect.

“The resolution on these new pads is amazing. And the camera even has a zoom.” He demonstrated the camera’s features with a close-up of Caroline’s face at the moment of abandon.

“You will delete this – this minute – or it’s going in the pool.” He tried to grab it off her but she held the pad out of reach.

“Caroline. What are you suggesting? I would never show this to anyone but you. It’s solely for my own private use.”

“You heard me – in the pool. Tell me how to delete it.”

He showed her how to get the toolbar up and how to send the film to the bin.

“And now tell me how to empty the bin.”

“Oh Caroline, don’t be such a spoilsport. You’re just denying an important, lovely part of yourself.”

“No, I’m not. I’m trying to protect my reputation from two billion creeps like you.”

“Okay, okay, collapse that screen – there’s the bin icon. Press delete again. Gone.”

Clive put the electronic pad back in the rucksack and leaned across Caroline, unnecessarily she thought, to sit the bag upright in the shade of rock. Did he deliberately brush against her breast?

“I really admire you, Caroline. Not just because you’re lying there naked. I love the way you deal with Ivan at the monthly meetings. You’re always so well prepared. He makes the rest of us look stupid but you seem to have anticipated the tricky questions he’s going to ask.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere.” Caroline smiled. She knew what Clive was like. But it was nice that someone noticed how much attention she paid to the monthly figures.

Clive turned towards her and propped himself up on his elbow. “You know, we would make a really good team. I’ve got this plan. In a couple of years’ time when the market for self-care has developed a bit, I’m going to set up my own company – our company if you like. Medical devices at home, aimed at the mass market of hypochondriacs who think they’re ill or are just about to be. I know I could make it work if I had someone like you to keep the cash flow tight and disciplined.”

Caroline continued to look up at the blue sky, feigning indifference. But she was enjoying the attention. It was so rare for anybody to be nice to her at work; usually it was moan, moan, moan.

Not discouraged, Clive placed a hand on her knee. “Just think about it for me, Caroline. These big companies just chew you up and spit you out. We would be free to do our own thing.” The hand moved up and stroked the inside of her thigh.

“Get off, Clive. I’m not that easy.”

“I know you’re not, Caroline. I’m just trying to give you what you want.”

“What I want? How do you know what I want?”

“Well – sex outdoors. You’re obviously an exhibitionist.”

“No I am not.”

“I bet you were Head Girl at school.”

“Yes, I was actually.”

“And you had the lead part in all the school plays?”

“No, not in every school play, once I was the director.”


  
Guest Blogger Bio 

ROBERT FANSHAW

Robert is a barrister who specialises in commercial law. He began writing articles for law magazines but then discovered more interesting material in the world of business inhabited by his wife, Caroline. What started as a blog when his wife was away on business trips became the ongoing story of the dilemma faced by many working couples today – how to balance the competing demands of work, marriage, and supporting a football team.

Now in his mid-thirties, Robert lives in Surrey, England.

Links:

Website: http://www.mywifecaroline.com/

Blog: http://fanshawrobert.blogspot.co.uk/

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Robert-Fanshaw/221928037948848?ref=hl

Twitter:  https://twitter.com/RobertFanshaw

 

Purchase links for Shameless Ambition

Amazon:  http://www.amazon.com/Shameless-Ambition-ebook/dp/B00CL9G746/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1367447106&sr=8-1&keywords=shameless+ambition

Steam eReads

http://steamereads.com.au/

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

Picture
0 Comments

Interview with Author Jessica Tornese

6/24/2013

0 Comments

 

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.  

book cover image for Linked Through Time by Jessica Tornese showing a bridge in the woods and dark stormy black and red background

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. 
book cover for Lost Through Time YA time travel novel by Jessica Tornese depicting an hourglass with fire burning all around it
“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

author photo of Jessica Tornese showing a picture of a pretty woman in a hoodie standing by the ocean her hair swirling in the breeze

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

book cover image for M&M Twins Lost in Browser Cave by Jessica Tornese depicting a young boy shining a flashlight in a cave

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

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

Picture
0 Comments

Interview with Author Sally Carpenter

6/17/2013

0 Comments

 

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?

book cover for The Baffled Beatlemaniac Caper depicting a broken microphone with a speaker which has bullet holes and rainbow music notes on a sky blue background
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

picture of author Sally Carpenter  

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.

Picture
0 Comments

Interview with Author Branka Čubrilo

6/10/2013

0 Comments

 

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?


  book cover for Mosaic of the Broken Soul by Branka Cubrilo depicting a jumbled artistic mass in the shape of a book cover along with the title

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

an image of author Branka Cubrilo smiling

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.

Picture
0 Comments
<<Previous
    WritModAge logo

    Blog Archives

    March 2022
    December 2021
    November 2021
    October 2021
    September 2021
    December 2020
    December 2019
    December 2018
    December 2017
    December 2016
    December 2015
    December 2014
    December 2013
    July 2013
    June 2013
    May 2013
    April 2013
    March 2013

    Get new posts by email:
    Powered by follow.it
    Visit our old posts on Blogger instead.

    RSS Feed

    Site Admin - Author Marie Lavender

    Picture
    Exploring worlds one page at a time...

    A glance at Marie's books

    Picture
    See more of this writer's work on her official website or Amazon author page.

    Blog Awards

    Picture

    Award

    Picture

    Award

    Picture

    Contribute

    Picture

    Cool new feature!

    Picture

    Attention

    The fact is…our policy has changed considerably, at least for a while. Starting from September 2021, I will be charging for some types of posts. There is no fee for a guest article, as long as you adhere to the blog's theme. I also will not charge for most blog tour/virtual tour features and big multi-author events which I host (these are giveaways or participation questions, and it's obvious what you're providing). If you'd like to submit a guest book review (no, I don't write book reviews, please don't ask me), I will not charge you. There WILL BE a fee for new release features, cover reveals, Author's Bookshelf features, author interviews, character interviews, and poetry spotlights. For companies that can afford a sponsored post, we'll discuss a reasonable quote. Email me at marieannlavender@gmail.com if you wish to participate in a promo or feature. Feel free to approach me with your creative ideas about a blog post. Booking for Writing in the Modern Age starts again for September 2021 at this point. Slots are always first come, first served; but if you have a specific release date, we may be able to help you with certain arrangements. So, contact us and reserve a spot! Refer to the 'guest schedule' at the top of the screen for further clarification about availability. Check out our 'Blog Policy' for more information about the types of features offered, how you can purchase a guest spot, my policy on review requests, and rules for guest writers. Thanks for understanding.

    Disclaimer

    Thoughts and opinions by guest authors do not necessarily represent any thoughts and opinions by this website's administrator, nor are they directly endorsed. All writings on the blog are subject to review and editing. Please visit our blog policy to understand the site's theme a little better.

    Use our hashtag #WritModAge when you mention us!

    bit.ly/1ONs85B

    Should you edit your own work? Definitely! - The Ultimate Guide to Editing a Book

    Picture

    Are you a technical writer? Look no further for some tools of the trade!

    Picture

    Love physical books like me? Check out this cool DIY link!

    Picture

    Sign up for Marie's author newsletter! Get on her mailing list @

    bit.ly/1g3wO13

    Blog Categories

    All
    2013
    2014
    2015
    2016
    2017
    2018
    2019
    2020
    2021
    99 Cents
    Accidental Marriage
    Achievements
    Adult
    Advice
    Amazon Gift Card
    Angela Terry
    Annual
    Anthology
    Article
    Articles
    Author Interview
    Authors
    Authors Helping Authors
    Authors Helping Writers
    Author Website
    Avoiding Burnout
    BDSM
    Behind The Scenes
    Blog
    Blog Tour
    Book
    Book Interview
    Book Lovers
    Book Review
    Books
    Bookshelf
    Challenges
    Characterization
    Chick Lit
    Children's Books
    Coming Soon
    Contemporary
    Cozy Mystery
    Creative Solutions
    Creativity
    Crime
    Dark Fantasy
    Dave Chesson
    Day In The Life
    Deadly Deceit
    Description
    Discount
    DJ Swykert
    Drama
    Drinking
    Editing
    Emilia Ares
    Erotica
    Erotic Romance
    Evelyn Sola
    Event
    Fantasy
    Feature
    Features
    Fiction
    Fiona Tarr
    Forever
    Francis H. Powell
    Freelance
    Friday Abumere
    Genre
    Genres
    Gentle Sensuality
    Giveaway
    Guest Authors
    Guest List
    Guest Post
    Guest Writer
    Helpful
    Hope
    Horror
    Human Condition
    Humorous Fiction
    Inspirational
    Interview
    Interviews
    Ivy Nelson
    Jaime Martinez-Tolentino
    Journaling
    KateMarie Collins
    Laura Graham
    Lessons
    Literary Fiction
    Love
    Love And Other Sins
    Marketing
    Mary Maddox
    Memoir
    Message
    Michael Aronovitz
    Morality
    Multicultural Fiction
    Multicultural Romance
    Mystery
    New Author Tips
    New Book
    New Release
    New Year
    Non-fiction
    Novella
    Novels
    Optimism
    Paranormal
    Poems
    Poetry
    POV
    Promo
    Promotion
    Psychological
    PTSD
    Publishing
    Readers
    Reality
    Recommended Reads
    Reference
    Reposted Book Review
    Resources
    Review
    Reviews
    Romance
    Romance Novel
    Romance Writing
    Romantic
    Romantic Comedy
    Romantic Drama
    Romantic Fiction
    Romantic Suspense
    Sale
    Science Fiction
    Self Help
    Self-help
    Sensitive Topics
    Serial Killer
    Service
    Sexy
    Social Media
    Sophia Zaccaria
    Spotlight
    Steamy Romance
    Story Elements
    Structure
    Style
    Subscribers
    Subscription
    Takedown
    Teaser
    Techniques
    Teen Issues
    The Indie Pen PR
    Theme
    The Trials Of Adeline Turner
    Thriller
    Time Travel
    T.J. Banks
    Travel Fiction
    Truth In Fiction
    Tuscany
    Update
    Urban Fantasy
    Womens Fiction
    Writers
    Writer's Block
    Writer's Life
    Writing
    Writing In The Modern Age
    Writing Process
    Writing Rules
    Writing Tips
    #WritModAge
    Xpresso Book Tours
    YA Romance
    Young Adult

Powered by Create your own unique website with customizable templates.
  • Home
  • About
  • Blog Policy
  • Guest Schedule
  • Contact Us
  • Blog Posts