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

Blogger Bio

Multi-genre author of Victorian maritime romance/family saga, Heiresses in Love, and 18 other books. Marie Lavender lives in the Midwest with her family and two cats. She has been writing for a little over twenty-five years. She has more works in progress than she can count on two hands. Since 2010, Marie has published 21 books in the genres of historical romance, contemporary romance, romantic suspense, paranormal romance, romantic comedy, dramatic fiction, fantasy, science fiction, mystery/thriller, literary fiction and poetry. An avid blogger on the side, she writes adult fiction, as well as occasional stories for children, and has recently started some young adult fiction. She also contributed to several anthologies. Though Marie has standalone titles on the market, her current published series are The Eternal Hearts Series, The Magick Series, The Code of Endhivar Series, The Misfits Series, The Blood at First Sight Series, and The Heiresses in Love Series. but she has many others planned. Her Victorian maritime romance sequels are returning, and the second editions of the trilogy will be released soon under her new publisher, Foundations Books. Discover more about her and her work at the following links.

List of Links:

https://linktr.ee/marielavender1

 

Check out our latest Writing in the Modern Age book spotlight here.

Hi, readers! We have a real treat in store for you today, a spotlight on a book by Sophia Zaccaria, quite a talented author!    
    
We wish you lots of success on your young adult fantasy novel! 
   
Let's check out the details, shall we?

About the Book

Here is the book blurb for Fairest.  

Flirting with evil will be the ruination of her soul.

Goodness is much easier to corrupt than it is to hold on to. And for Natasha, a woman reeling from the pain of losing a loved one, evil is all the more tempting. Luck or misfortune spirits Natasha away to the foreign Court of Velaris in a quest for a suitor but instead secures her a place among Velarian royalty. Craving revenge, Natasha makes use of this opportunity to enact her plans as she navigates the lush court where aristocracy is a double-edged blade. But when she befriends her soon-to-be husband Mikhail, the Beloved Prince, Natasha makes a deadly mistake. She captures the attention of the debonair Darkling Prince; a villainous man meant to ascend the Velarian throne.

Enamored, the Darkling Prince charms Natasha, and soon the two feel a forbidden emotion captivate their stoic, scabrous hearts. But with the existence of a violent rebel group capable of cataclysmic damage, there is little time for love. With war brewing amidst the enigmatic kingdom, the royals must become all the more cunning and devious if they wish to triumph over their adversaries. What draws the insidious line between right and wrong when it comes to a battle of survival? For Natasha, nothing is too far, too light, too bloody, too evil.

Soon, the only reflection Natasha sees in her mirror's beveled glass is that of an Evil Queen. Often, the cost of survival is more frightening than the beasts of death. But that's what gives the Queen of Shadow's beauty an edge: she wears her darkness adorned about her throat like the grandest of all diamonds, ebony, and bloodred in shade.

Release Date:  July 18, 2021

Genre:  YA Fantasy, Some Romance Elements

 

Sounds like an intriguing read here!

 

Purchase Links:

Goodreads     Amazon

Universal Reader link:  https://books2read.com/u/4Xreo9

 

Sophia is also giving us a peek at this book today!

Readers, here’s an excerpt...

Danilo’s blood drips mockingly from his mouth, a terrifying scarlet smile. “I think you know just how this has to end, my scarlet queen.”

Crimson blood slid down my alabaster skin as I innocently said, “With your heart on a platter for me to feast upon?” I tilted my head in consideration. “Or shall you prefer I maul your heart first, bathe in your blood, then feast upon your heart like the delicacy it is not?”

In a pique of rage, he snarls and lashes forward, his sword slicing into my left arm, reopening an old wound.

Attack. Attack!

In urgent, coaxing shouts like whispers and tears had become lovers and found their voices together, the alluring phantom’s voice said, Evil is to show mercy when death is inevitable. Instantly enraged with some ancient chaotic fervor, the adrenaline of the brawl masked my pain, and I lunged forward. Kill! Like before, I listened to the enigmatic voice. And now, I became a predator—lethality incarnate bent on only one goal: to kill.

I’d been depriving myself of revenge. I would do so no longer.

Ice exploded through my veins, heralding the darkness.

Drawing on a modicum of power, I summoned my darkness and turned the air around me to shadows of obsidian. Danilo deserves no mercy. At this thought, the shadows around me grew until I felt its edges touch the netherworld itself. My magic surged forward, and I twisted it into an imitation of the Velarian dungeons. Horrified, Danilo watched in morbid fascination as shadows reminiscent of a cell’s smothering walls surrounded him. “Don’t.” His voice was sharp with emotion, and a slow smile lifted my mouth.

“Don’t what? I mean you no harm.” No physical harm. The shadows merely created a mirage, a general impression of shades from dull greys to dried-out reds turned burgundy. Paired with chains and imposing spiked bars that seemed to asphyxiate its prisoner, my mirage was perfect. But not inescapable. If he had enough sense of mind, he could swipe his hand through the shadows, and the nightmare would disappear. But fear is the mind’s warden, and now it is Danilo’s prison. Danilo’s face contorted in a grave expression of pain. “S—stop.” I laughed caustically in the wake of his fear, remembering that a few hours ago, Danilo had stabbed me.

“Stop?” I parroted a moment later, stalking close enough to notice the tiny hairs on his neck standing straight while he trembled. “That word meant nothing to you then. It meant nothing when I begged. Nothing when I pleaded with you to show mercy.” I curled my fingers, analyzing his reaction to the prison encircling him. “Why should it matter to me now?” A mutinous smile of antipathy curled his mouth.

“I awoke you. Without me, you would still be the obedient Darkling Queen, nothing more than an antinome. I unleashed your darkness, and I will never leave you, even if I am gone.” No, it’s a lie, but . . . Danilo’s analysis is all the more poignant when I take into account the scene: Danilo, the victim, and me, the aggressor and villain. Embittered by this, I mocked, “Well, I want to know who we are without each other! I want to know if I’ll recover that broken piece of innocence you STOLE!” Collecting my magic for a finishing blow, I reared my arms back, aiming . . . Wait, whispered the feminine phantom. Against my better judgment, I did, reining in my power until it swirled in inky clouds and fulminated against the restraint. Keep him alive. Trust me, you’d rather make a wicked deal now than kill.

Intrigued by the suggestion, I scrutinized Danilo thoughtfully, my already opalescent complexion turning entirely statuesque as I stared down my enemy. Finally, I spoke, “I wish to have my curiosity satiated. To know what my temperament will be without you whispering evils in my ear.”

Intriguing!

So, what are other readers saying about this book?

☆☆☆☆☆

"Great dark fairytale!! I have a soft spot for villains. I always wonder what their backstories are and what caused them to become the bad guy. So, when I read the blurb for Fairest, I knew that I needed to read it. It is not very often where the origins of the Evil Queen from Snow White are explored!! I am glad that I did because this book had me glued to the pages.

Fairest tells the story of Alina (aka Natasha) and her rise/eventual metamorphosis to the Evil Queen. It was a sad but fascinating tale. A fantastic read." – Read with Me Blog, Amazon

Wow, it sounds like quite a read!

Get your copy of this YA fantasy novel today, readers! Or, add it to your Goodreads bookshelf or BookBub!

Thanks for letting us know all about this book, Sophia! :)

About the Author:

Sophia Zaccaria is the author of her debut novel, Fairest, a retelling of Snow White, and is a massive fan of the classic Grimm fairy tales. As a young Canadian writer, Sophia is always looking to weave mystical and magical things into her stories. Sophia enjoys kickboxing, jogging, and visiting eighteenth-century Gothic scenes to appease her muse's darker side when she is not writing. You can discover her linguistic adventures by following her on Instagram @thesophiazaccaria and Inkitt.

Author Links:

Inkitt     

Instagram

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

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?

 

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.

 

Six Methods to Find Your Own Unique Writing Style:

 a guest post by Joel Foster

 

 

Writing does not come easy to many people, and it can be hard to write down thoughts on paper. As prolific writer Stephen King said, “The scariest moment is always just before you start.”

 

For extra inspiration, we highly recommend any writer reads On Writing by Stephen King. Many of his films can also be watched online to get a collective taste of his style of plot writing.

 

Where to start is always the biggest hurdle writers face. As you begin, set the intention to write in your own voice as if you are speaking to someone instead of writing.

 

In this article, we’ve put together some methods that will help anyone find their unique writing style.

 

Write about What You Know

 

The best way to finesse your own unique way of writing is to write about something you know well. It can be about a hobby, work, friends, or anything you are knowledgeable about.

 

Write about subjects that you know best. You won't have to research the topic, and the words will flow from your mind to the paper. This way of writing ensures that your voice will be the only one in the article.

 

You can use this as practice until you find your own writing style. Just like we all don’t speak the same way, we don’t all have the same voice when we write. When writing about a hobby, pick a very specific part of that hobby and write about it in detail.

Photo by Rirri on Unsplash

 

Write about Experiences

 

Writing about experiences is another excellent way to practice writing and finding a unique writing style. Pick any experience from your life and write about it. It can be a non-fictional account of something you experienced with all of the details.

 

It can also be turned into a creative fictional story. Just by picking an experience from your past, you can embellish the story, add characters and write what you feel. When it comes to writing, imagination can be a powerful tool.

 

Many successful fiction writers take parts of their life experiences to use in their creative writing. Use people that you have known and use them in your stories. For example, J.K. Rowling based Professor Snape after a chemistry teacher she had in school years before she wrote the Harry Potter series.

Photo by Lucas Vasques on Unsplash

 

Describe a Scene

 

Everyone sees a scene or a picture differently. Write about a scene outside the window, or find an image and describe it in your own words. Describing a scene or picture helps you find your own unique way of writing.

 

 Photo by Pat Whelen on Unsplash

 

A picture might evoke different memories or emotions in each person. When a writer describes a picture or scene, that person's emotions and memories will be a part of the description. Make it as descriptive as possible. The better the description, the more a unique writing style will emerge.

 

Talk in Your Writing

 

Writing should be just like talking to someone. Just because it is a written work doesn’t mean the tone of vocabulary has to be changed. When you write about your experiences or describing something, write about it as if you were explaining it to someone sitting across the table from you.

 

Photo by Jessica Da Rosa on Unsplash

 

 Write as if you were talking to a friend. You wouldn’t talk down to them, be dull or feel you have to use complex vocabulary for the sake of it. The narrative would be descriptive. Most people don’t talk to a friend or a group of people using big words that have to be looked up in a dictionary. And writing should be the same way.

 

Freewriting

 

Freewriting is sitting down and writing whatever comes to mind. It can be fiction or nonfiction. The point of this exercise is to sit down and write. Most writers like to set a time limit, but other writers write until they finish their thoughts. Those that use a timer use freewriting as a warm-up, before more focused writing. Freewriting can be done every day. A great resource is Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way, which encourages a practice called Morning Pages where you freewrite in the morning as a way to unlock creativity.

 

 Photo by Kinga Cichewicz on Unsplash

 

Writers use this freewriting technique to come up with new inspirations and ideas. What you write can be as crazy as you like. It’s amazing how many new ideas can come out of this exercise! Freewriting is usually fast since there is no pre-planned topic to write about, just what comes to mind.

 

Freewriting is also an excellent way to overcome writer’s block. There is no need to worry about grammar or spelling. When finished, look over what was written. There could be nuggets of gold in there! Or, you might find you like the way you've used certain words in sentences. Using free writing will help writers find their own unique style of writing.

 

Read Out Loud

 

Reading your work out loud is much better than just seeing the words on paper. You will hear your style of writing and how you formed the sentences and the words you use. When you hear something you don’t like, change it until you do.

 

By hearing your words, you will learn to recognize what sounds good and what doesn’t. Experiment with different sentences, phrases and words. This is how to develop a unique writing style. Read books to see how other writers have developed their own particular style of writing. Some of the best writers are also avid book readers.

 

Guest Blogger Bio

 

Joel is a freelance writer who writes about entertainment, novels, technology, business and film. 

 

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

How to Make Your Characters Believable:

a guest post by Stefan Vucak

 

 

People are quirky, unpredictable, emotional, and often cannot be relied upon. Governed by the environment within which they live, knowledge accumulated over years of learning, whether formal or through personal endeavor, and simply interacting with others, an individual is a complex matrix of what it means to be human. Above all things, people are self-centered, always looking for that angle which will make them come ahead—that quick fix to bypass the necessary hard work in-between. That’s why we gamble.

 

Standing on a busy street corner, waiting for the lights to change so I can cross, I am bemused by the sight of pedestrians hurrying, dawdling, or completely distracted with faces buried in a smart phone crossing the other way. There are tall people, skinny ones, some not so, Caucasian, Asian; all sorts. Some are wearing smiles, while others scowl, and there are those who seem to be stooped like they are bearing the load of the world on their shoulders. The teens skip gaily, chatting to each other and laughing, looking on us oldsters as incomprehensible cubes, wondering what all the fuss is about.

So, what’s with the philosophical sideline? Believe it or not, there is a point. Purse your lips and ask yourself if you have really looked at a stranger lately, and simply from his appearance tried to work out his personality, social status, mannerisms, identifying marks? If you can see them, does he have brown eyes or blue ones or green? Is his face round, square, long, gaunt, plump? Does he walk with confident strides or is he hesitant, his eyes darting suspiciously as he pushes through the crowd? Is he carrying anything? If so, what is it? Does it help you identify him? On an instinctive level, do you like him or do the hairs on the back of your neck tingle at the sight of him?

Are you starting to get the broader picture? Do you observe people or does the mass of humanity simply slide past your consciousness as you hurry across the street, your mind focused on whatever it is you need to do? Finishing that chapter you’ve been struggling with, perhaps? The struggle caused because your main character, and maybe the whole cast, is somewhat two-dimensional, a nobody, and you cannot quite figure out why? Then again, you might be thinking: I don’t need to describe my characters; the story is good enough to carry them. You could be right. You could also be wrong, you know.

Deciding how to portray characters in your writing can be a contributing factor in producing a great book, or something that’s okay for a once off read. Every book has two basic components: action sequences and characters who do the action or have action done unto them. Many books rely on action alone, and some do it with superb craftsmanship. Others get into a character’s mind and never let you leave it. That can be entertaining and enthralling—if done well. But how can you tell whether your characters are genuinely alive and real? Simple, really. Think of a recent book you have read and ask yourself this. Do the characters stand out? If so, why? Or are they cardboard cutouts who cannot utter a coherent sentence? It is an instinctive thing anyone can spot. Unfortunately, many writers can spot it in someone else’s book, but are unable to see it in their own writing.

All right, how do you make your characters believable? Before you even start writing that epic, you need a detailed outline, a story skeleton on which you’ll hang the words. Part of writing that outline will require that you line up your cast and stare at them, then pick those that will star in your book. Think of a casting director for a movie. Your cast will be determined by the type of book you are writing. Is it a love story, a techno thriller, a murder mystery, a convoluted spy thriller, a tearjerker? Are you looking for action men, sleuths, hard-boiled gumshoes, sleazy womanizers, or just mean guys? What does this process do for you? Whether you realize it or not, and you should, you are taking a first step toward making your characters believable. You are thinking of them as individuals with personalities.

To make every member of your cast a living person, you need a police profile that goes something like this:

- Height

- Weight

- Complexion

- What color eyes

- Does he chomp his food, or is he a dainty gentleman

- Does he swear

- What is his normal behavior: tense, relaxed, awkward, sharp…

- Special mannerisms, use of phrases, habits…

I think you are starting to get the idea. Why such a profile you might ask? For one thing, it will crystallize that character in your own mind. Whenever you write about him, the character will always behave consistently, true to himself. Any deviation will not be looked on favorably by your readers. There is nothing more irritating than reading on one page the character is five foot ten, and later, he is six feet two, or something like that. You may never employ all of the character’s profile in the book, so why bother? What this does is makes the character live, which is the important thing. He becomes a close friend, or an enemy. You will like him or you won’t. Either way, you will know this character, and so will your readers. If someone asks you to describe your sister, brother, mother or friend, you can readily spew out the words with hardly a pause. In the same way, you must be able to handle your characters in your writing.

Remember that cardboard cutout? He is a cutout simply because the writer doesn’t know him. He is a complete stranger, and he comes across as such to readers. That’s all there is to it. Well, there is a bit more, of course. That more being the dialogue.

You cannot handle a novel with a character not having to say anything—unless he is a Robinson Crusoe. Since there are no more unoccupied coral islands where someone can get away from it all and clam up, your characters will have to say something sometime. What they say and how they say it will go a long way toward making them real and believable, or two-dimensional cutout dummies. Some writers can handle dialogue with natural skills, while others agonize. How do you master dialogue? Grab one of your favorite books and check the dialogue. Why do you like it, and does your dialogue come anywhere close? If not, what can you do about it? That’s simple, but involves some sweat on your part. You are a writer, right? So, practice writing dialogue until it becomes second nature. Never mind about what, just write. Think of the last conversation you had with someone and write the ensuing dialogue. When you read it, does every aspect of that episode come through? And I am not talking only about what was said, but how it was said, what emotion was displayed, gestures, tone of voice, hidden meanings. If what you have written doesn’t match your memory, you obviously haven’t got it right. Give the piece to the person you had the conversation with and get his feedback.

If you have read this far, you are right to point out that there is much more to making your characters believable, but I hope I got you thinking and looking at your characters in a new light. By the way, get a professional editor to go over your writing. An impartial pair of eyes can do wonders for your novel.

 

Guest Blogger Bio

 

Stefan is an award-winning author of eight techno sci-fi novels, including With Shadow and Thunder which was a 2002 EPPIE finalist. His Shadow Gods Saga books have been highly acclaimed by critics. His political thriller, Cry of Eagles, won the coveted 2011 Readers Favorite silver medal award, and his All the Evils was the 2013 prestigious Eric Hoffer contest finalist.   

Stefan leveraged a successful career in the Information Technology industry and applied that discipline to create realistic, highly believable storylines for his books. Born in Croatia, he now lives in Melbourne, Australia.

Links:

Website:  http://www.stefanvucak.com/

Facebook:  https://www.facebook.com/StefanVucak

Twitter:  https://twitter.com/stefanvucak 

 

Shadow Gods Saga:  Series Link

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My grandmother did the same thing.  LOL. 

Do you have any favorite authors?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Good advice. 

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

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

Here's an excerpt from The Death of Anyone. 

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

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

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

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

“Can I get you something to drink?”

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

“Yes, ma’am.”

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

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

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

“You picked the place.”

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

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

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

“You were in narcotics?”

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

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

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

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

 

Author Bio
 

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

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

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

Links:

Blog: www.magicmasterminds.com

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

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

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

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

 

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

Hi, readers! We have a real treat in store for you today, a poetry spotlight. In these poetry spotlights today and in the future, we will be showcasing poetry by some very talented poets. These poets have graced us with their presence.  

With us today is poet CJ Heck. Here is a little taste of her poetry and her views on gentle sensuality.

 

When It's Over, You Just Know 

You don't always know
how you know, 
it comes slowly, the awareness. 
With the certainty and final resignation 
of a child learning there's no Santa Claus, 
you just know.

The breakfast table, once a venue 
for long dreamy stares 
and coffee-flavored kisses, 
awkwardly becomes a silent stage 
for reading the news, 
eating breakfast, and 
you just know.

The smell of his shirt 
when you'd bury your face there, 
the feel of his hands on your body 
as if they had a life of their own, 
all silently slip to a place 
wherever memories go 
to gather dust, and 
you just know. 

You miss the nights, 
how his body and yours 
breathed and moved as one. 
Maybe it's those nights 
and how they were 
that give the knowing life, but 
you just know. 

Like ocean waves upon the sand, 
love recedes 
with all the other yesterdays 
and you would trade 
all your tomorrows 
to have it back, but 
you just know.

 

 

We Need to Get Away

 

Have I told you lately

how good you smell

when the shower

spits you out?

I can't recall

the last time, but

it wouldn't surprise me,

considering what time

we actually have to spend

alone together these days.

I do know, I remember

how intense it used to be.

We need to get away,

just the two of us,

before we grow any ruts

in this lovely road …

 

Let's go somewhere now,

before talking dirty

really means:

"You doing a light load?

Can you grab my pj's

from the hook

on the bathroom door?"

 

Before wanna catch a quickie?

really means:

"I'm pooped.  Wanna take a nap?"

 

Before Oh God, I'm coming!

actually means,

"Don't nag me, I'm almost ready!

Go ahead, start the car."

 

Let's go somewhere now

while Baby, that was fantastic!

still means more than

a Sunday Scrabble win.

 

It's not too late ...

I remember.

  

 

A Box for Goodwill

 

As a friend, I had come to help

yet one more time

and I watched as she set

the cardboard box on the floor.

It was labeled for Goodwill,

penned in large block letters.

From deep in the closet,

she brought out an old blue suit.

It had faded over the years,

but I saw in her eyes

the memories still had not.

Softly, she smoothed the sleeves

that dangled flat and empty.

Then she stroked the slack trousers

on the smooth wooden hanger.

Gently, she brushed

the dust from the collar and lapel,

and then I heard her sigh.

Her resolve had melted away.

Again we talked and remembered.

We spoke of long ago,

how the sleeves encircled her

in warm secure hugs,

and the trousers had covered

lean muscular legs,

legs slightly bowed,

legs that loved to dance,

and what she missed the most

--the heart that beat below

the lapel of the old blue suit,

the heart that beat with love for her.

For over forty years,

the suit had stood sentinel,

loyally guarding both her

and those memories,

and I watched as she carefully

replaced the suit and closed

the closet door.

Through quiet tears

she asked once more

how all of that could ever fit

in a box for Goodwill.

 

 

A Poet for a Lover

 

Oh Lord, give me a poet for a lover,

whose words stroke me like velvet hands.

Word-tender caresses more reaching

than the caress of a mere mortal man.

 

A poet's light touch is so gentle.

Word-fingers probe deep every time,

arousing me, haunting me, wetting me,

seducing me, body and mind.

 

Oh Lord, give me a poet for a lover!

Lust and fire burn deep in his heart.

A silver-tongued devil whose words make me ache

to be on my knees in the dark.

 

Word-foreplay making me want him,

only mind-loved, I want to be free

to feel just one time, my poet inside, where only mind-lust up to now has loved me. 

Poet Bio  

CJ Heck is a published poet, writer, blogger, and the author of three children's books, a collection of short stories, and her newest, a poetry book for adults. She is also a Vietnam War widow.

CJ has three daughters and eleven grandchildren. She lives and writes in Florida with her partner, Robert Cosmar, who is also an author.

For book excerpts, more information, interviews, or to invite CJ to your school, or organization, please call 352-299-5634 or visit her website, Barking Spiders Poetry.

Links:

LinkedIn: http://www.linkedin.com/pub/cj-heck/17/312/b76

Twitter: https://twitter.com/CJHeck60

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/cj.heck1

https://www.facebook.com/CJHeckAuthor

Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/C.J.-Heck/e/B000APRMC4

Blogs: http://memoirsfromnam.blogspot.com/

http://cjswriterthoughts.blogspot.com/

http://knowingwhispers.blogspot.com/

Youtube: http://www.youtube.com/user/cjheck1949/videos

Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5308345.C_J_Heck

Shelfari: http://www.shelfari.com/cj_heck

Books:

Barking Spiders (and Other Such Stuff)
Barking Spiders 2 (sequel)
Me Too!  Preschool Poetry 
Bits and Pieces (Short Story Collection)

Anatomy of a Poet

My Etsy Shop for Autographed Books:
http://www.etsy.com/shop/CJHeckBooks

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Do you have any favorite authors? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Here is the blurb for Good Deed.

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

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

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

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

Here's an excerpt from Good Deed.

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

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

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

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

“Here we go,” said Liam. 

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

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

On this particular day they struck gold.   

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Author Bio

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

Links:

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

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

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

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

Hi, readers!  We have a real treat in store for you today, a poetry spotlight. In these poetry spotlights today and in the future, we will be showcasing poetry by some very talented poets. These poets have graced us with their presence.  

With us today is poet Pam Handa. Here is a little taste of her poetry and her views on love.

 

 

Stupid Cupid

 

Mortals have believed in you right from the start,

Because tiny Cupid you're such a sweetheart.

Your golden wings are a wonder and delight;

Your solid arrows quite impossible to fight.

Who can resist your loving piercing darts

Which strike at random vulnerable hearts?

When you come down racing by to strike,

Men and women who each other could like,

There's no running away from your absolute power,

Or trying to evade your earthly love shower.

The ignorant may call you stupid Cupid

But the wise know you're love's child little Cupid

 

Love

Love, the most unique

Of all human emotions,

To a million folks,

Is a million notions.

 

Simply holding hands,

Or lying on the sands.

Whispering sweet nothings,

Or many other things:

 

A hot, fiery kiss;

Or someone you miss.

A big sacrifice;

An infatuation in disguise.

 

A fleeting smile,

Lasting quite a while

A life-time passion,

Or a strange obsession.

 

For some, it’s a dream

As bright as a sunbeam.

Or a reality stark,

Consuming one like a shark!

 

Whatever one thinks,

Whatever one feels,

It fills one’s very being,

And from what I’m seeing,

 

It brings a special feeling

That sends the head reeling.

Taking away the strife,

Of this earthly life.

 

Making one’s ordinary existence

Full of joy and excitement

An extraordinary resistance,

And mental enlightenment!

 

The Queen of the Heart

 

 The young lady was still in her early teens,

When love came by in a tinsel dream.

 “Would you like to be my queen,” he promptly asked.

 “Oh yes,” she replied, “If forever you will last.”

 “Let’s sign a bilateral pact never ever to part,

 But to stay alive in each other’s heart.”

 

“That’s fine by me,” replied the jubilant teen,

“What about the times when life is not so serene?”

“Why worry about what we may never see?

Let’s dwell on that which will surely be.”

“That’s fine by me, I’ll do my little bit.

What happens to us when old age does hit?”

“Think of all the good times we’ll have enshrined,

In our photo-albums on the side-board lined.”

“If you say so my dear, I’ll gladly believe,

But, promise me this, there’ll be no sigh to heave.”

“When we’ve seen the cliffs of Dover,

And it’s still not quite over,

I promise we’ll retire to where we belong.

In that corner of my heart,

Where I know we'll still be strong.”

 

 

Poet Bio 

 

My name is Pam Handa nee Kochhar. I was born in New Delhi but have spent most of my life in Ghana and the UK. I graduated from the Sacred Heart College Dalhousie, in India. I received my Masters degree from the Punjab University as well as a gold medal for coming first. I started my teaching career in the English Dept of the same university. I married Dr Prem Handa, a Paediatrician, in 1968 and in 1972 we emigrated to Ghana. Today, I am the author of two books recently published by Trafford in the USA. 

Of Kismet and Karma, my first novel, is a cross-cultural blend of fact and fiction, based on my personal experiences in India, Ghana and the UK. My anthology of poems is entitled Wings of the Heart. Both books are available on Amazon.com, as E-books and in all Barnes and Nobles shops. The EBOOKS are really cheap. Get hold of them and spend time on going back to all that stirs the very soul!

Links:

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/pages/PAM-HANDA-NEE-KOCHHAR/121487404694554
Twitter:  @handapam

Book Links:  https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/17246306-wings-of-the-heart

https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/17240630-of-kismet-and-karma

http://www.ebookmall.com/author/pam-handa-nee-kochhar

Miscellaneous:  http://thevirtualbookcase.wordpress.com/2013/06/02/of-kismet-and-karma-and-other-books-by-pam-handa-nee-kochhar/

Youtube Videos:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5VECPWY6qUI 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rjrt6Dm_mx8 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N6gjwPYwDws 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZOgfateng1A 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LsHEVRVo90w 

 

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