Book Review Etiquette

 

 

Authors can’t sell books without reviews. Especially now that a lot of authors are going the self-published route, book reviews are crucial elements that authors seek and crave. Well, good reviews are craved.

Recently, there has been a trend for readers to post reviews before they have even read the book.

A fellow author recently received the following ONE star review: "I did not read it I just downloaded it," says Raebeth Buda, author of ‘Silenced’ and host of the Writing World web site. “Last year I also got a ONE star review that said, 'I haven't read it yet, I will leave a review when I do.'  They have yet to review it. That star has been sitting there hurting my rating ever since. And with only 10 ratings on that particular site, it hurts a LOT.”

It hurts the author because most book review sites give an average star rating, figuring all the reviews into one score. It’s like getting straight A’s all semester, and then getting one F that pulls your grade average down to a C.

“It seems like common sense, but I think more people need to be aware of how much needless one star reviews can hurt. It's great you bought the book, [and] it's great you intend to review it. But leaving a one star 'placeholder' hurts the author much more than leaving no review at all,” Buda says.

Stars on a book review are pretty much equal to the five point grading system used in schools. A five star rating is the same as an A on an essay. It means you thoroughly enjoyed the book. Four stars means the book was enjoyable, but had a few faults. A three star rating means the book barely passed. Anything below three stars warns other readers to pass the book by and buy something else. A one star rating means the author should not have published the book in the first place.

When writing a review for a book, the reader should give a summary of the story to let the next reader know what the subject of the book is about. It also lets the reader know that the reviewer did in fact read the book. It should then point out the book’s virtues and weaknesses. Is it well paced? Does the plot make sense? Are the clues foreshadowed, or does the answer appear out of nowhere? Are the characters believable and likeable? Is it well researched? 

The conclusion of the review then gives an overall reaction to the book: it was a pleasant read, it was a page turner, I couldn’t put it down, I highly recommend the book, I can’t wait for the next one. The conclusion of the review should not be what is called a 'spoiler': the butler did it. It’s acceptable to say that the ending was surprising, but not to say what the surprise actually was.

So, please, write your reviews, but follow the rules and format of a good review. Even if your opinion is bad, every review posted should be good in quality, helpful to other readers, and a true reflection of the reader’s opinions.

 

Guest Blogger Bio 

 

Paula Hrbacek is the author of five books, including Stars Shine After Dark, a sweet Christian romance, available in paperback, Kindle and Nook.

Day Camp in Hawaii, a complete program guide for summer camp or summer school, is available in paperback, Nook and Kindle. For more information see http://paulahrbacek.weebly.com or her author page at https://www.amazon.com/author/paulahrbacek.

She also writes two columns for The Examiner, a free online newspaper; Children’s Arts and Crafts, and Book Reviews.

Links:

LinkedIn: http://www.linkedin.com/profile/view?id=104609576&locale=en_US&trk=tyah2

Facebook:  https://www.facebook.com/PaulaHrbacek?fref=ts

https://www.facebook.com/pages/Paula-Hrbacek/199054570166688?fref=ts

Twitter:  https://twitter.com/PHrbacek 

Universal Amazon link:  mybook.to/DayCampHawaii 

Also in paperback at B&N.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Do you have any favorite authors? 

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

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

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

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

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

Don't find an excuse. Find a way.  

Here is the blurb for Ribbons of Moonlight.

Emma Sanders:

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

Connor MacAllister Kane:

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

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

Here's an excerpt from Ribbons of Moonlight.

 

 

Chapter One

 

She looks so beautiful. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Chapter Two

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Spirited little dabchick, eh?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He shook his head. 

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

He shook his head again.

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

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

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

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

 

Author Bio  

   

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

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

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

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

You can find me at:

http://rebeccalfrencl.blogspot.com/

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

https://twitter.com/rlfrencl

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

 

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

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

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

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 3^rd) 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.

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Do you have any favorite authors? 

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

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

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

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

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

Here is the blurb for Linked Through Time.  

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

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

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

Here's an excerpt from Linked Through Time. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Here is the blurb for Lost Through Time. 

“There never was a body, you know.”

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

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

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

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

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

And an excerpt from Lost Through Time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sickness heaved inside and I clenched my jaw.

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

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

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

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

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

 

Author Bio

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

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

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

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

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

Links:

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

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

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

Twitter- @jltornese

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

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

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

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

BOOK REVIEW: Journaling with Jesus: How to Draw Closer to God

 

Reviewer:  Kathryn Elizabeth Jones

Author:  Carol Round 

For readers who know me and my personal journey with what I've always called "scripture" journaling, you'll want to read Journaling with Jesus, an insightful, honest and refreshingly motivating nonfiction book by Carol Round.

If you've ever wanted to get closer to God through prayer, scripture study and journaling, then this book is for you. Journaling with Jesus is beautifully penned from the first word to the last, and gives adult readers an opportunity to see the power of prayer while they are developing a more intimate communication with God. 

Round shares personal experiences that she has had with God through her journaling of the past 10 years. She also shares the experiences others have had with prayer journaling. She opens the way for readers of all faiths to experience prayer journaling for themselves. 

Consider these insights:

"(Prayer journaling) is a relationship with God. I talk, He listens. He talks, I listen."

"...we write to grow, not to stay the same."

"I wasn't aware of God's plan to use my gifts and talents for His glory. Through my daily habit of journaling, He has made me appreciate the importance of letting Him shape and mold me into the woman He created me to be."

Journaling with Jesus is for anyone desiring to improve his/her relationship with God. Although this reader could see the direction of the book for women, primarily, the truths spoken of in Round's book will assist anyone with the desire for a deeper connection with God. 

Discover the interest God has in you as His child. Feel the presence of God.

Carol Round's book can be purchased at Amazon. 

About the Author

CAROL ROUND, self-syndicated columnist, Christian author and inspirational speaker, began her journey with the Lord in October 2001 when she admitted her need for His guidance. Since that time, she has sought a deeper relationship with Him through reading scripture, Bible study and the personal discipline of keeping a daily prayer journal. After being encouraged by other Christian women, she has compiled her experiences with prayer journaling into "Journaling with Jesus: How to Draw Closer to God" and the companion workbook, "The 40-Day Challenge." Both are available through amazon.com.

Carol's first two books, A MATTER OF FAITH, and FAITH MATTERS, are collections of her weekly faith-based column which runs in 12 Oklahoma newspapers and at http://www.assistnews.net/. Both books can be purchased through Amazon.com.

Her third collection of columns, "Sola Fide: by FAITH alone," was released in October 2012 and is also available through Amazon.com.


Reviewer Bio


Kathryn has been a published writer since 1987.  She graduated from the University of Utah with a B.S. in Mass Communication and a minor in Creative Writing. Her studies included work in creative writing, public relations and journalism. In 2012, she opened the doors to Idea Creations Press, a publishing services company that caters to writers and their writing, publishing and marketing needs. Her newest book, Marketing Your Book on a Budget 2013, can be found at Amazon.

Links:

Websites: http://www.ideacreationspress.com

http://www.ariverofstones.com

Facebook:  https://www.facebook.com/KathrynElizabethJones.Author?ref=ts&fref=ts

LinkedIn:  http://www.linkedin.com/profile/view?id=21281954&locale=en_US&trk=tyah2

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Do you have any favorite authors? 

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

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

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

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

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

Here is the blurb for The Baffled Beatlemaniac Caper.

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

Here's an excerpt from The Baffled Beatlemaniac Caper.

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

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

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

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

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

            “Yes, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  

Author Bio

  

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

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

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

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

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

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

Links:

Website:  http://sandyfairfaxauthor.com

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

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

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

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 the world of poetry.

 

 

 

What is a Heart bereft of Hope?

Hope brings me strength; hope brings me joy.

Hope uplifts my mind towards the sky.

Hope is that magic beyond all logic,

That makes me smile or run over a mile.

Imprisoned by sorrow when my heart does mourn,

Hope, my anchor, inspires me towards the dawn.

Then my winged feet carry me across grief ’s line,

Willingly I drown in the quicksand of past time.

Remorse withdrawn new courage is born,

Ignoring the cruel sundial of age I’m gone-

Far away where the glimmer of hope I can see,

Clearly transform sad feelings to comfort me.

When with heavy heart my thoughts I strum,

Oblivious to this noisy world I begin to hum . . . .

What is a heart bereft of new hopes?

Simply an object that in darkness gropes.

If life had more hope than despair,

Could we our sorrow not repair?

And if it were the other way round

Would we not die without a sound?

 

 

Because

Because of the hopes I pinned on you,

Because of the optimism you filled in me,

Because of the courage instilled by you,

Because of the desires exhibited by me,

Because of love, because of hope;

Because of joy, because I could cope;

Because of you, because of me;

Because of the strength stored within my spirit free-

The sea of despair was easy to cross-

The burden of sorrow we were able to gloss.

Now all is calm; quiet as a breeze;

The life’s blessings endure with sheen and ease.

Unforgettable memories collected from yore-

The mark of our love, which they undoubtedly bore.

Though my mind ticks away like a grandfather clock,

The ship of life has yet to dock.

The beating of emotions solid as rock,

Will only stop when breathing stops.

 

 

What Pam has to say about her poetry:

People often wonder why I went into writing at this late stage in life. To begin with, I believe it is never too late to do what you love. Secondly, since my parents had made huge sacrifices to give me the best education of the times, I felt I should not let those sacrifices go to waste.

Moreover, I have always had a passion for writing in general, and writing rhyming couplets, in particular, ever since I can remember. My mother, who could rattle off Shakespeare at any given moment, became my listening audience when I was growing up. Unfortunately it is very late in life that I got published.

The subject matter of my recent anthology of poems Wings of the Heart is varied. In addition to cultural themes, this book dwells not only on sentimental matters of the heart, the seat of soulful feelings and emotions but also on the heart of such matters. In today’s crazy commercial world, the poems in this book transport us to the good old days when music, poetry, dance and drama were the wings of the heart and soul.

In each poem I don the required robe of a happy, sad, optimistic, pessimistic, loving, caring or dreaming human being with particular dreams, problems, and thoughts. In fact, once I decide to view life from various angles, I quickly transform myself into the person I wish to portray. I am a happy person in some poems; I become a disappointed lover in others. Often I transform myself into an optimist and sometimes I become a complete pragmatist. There are times when I even become an inquisitive journalist seeking answers to some important riddles of life. In fact, sometimes I seem to be in love, sometimes I become an idealist and a dreamer and often I am full of the zest for life.

Readers, my poems are in the form of traditional verse. They are rhythmic, soulful and meaningful. They describe a panoramic view of the millions of thoughts, hopes, fears, joys, achievements, failures despair, dejection, rejection we as human beings are bound to face in life. They will surely touch the hearts of most of you who still maintain a sentimental side to your characters even in today’s materialistic world where there is no time to stand and stare!

In our new tech savvy world, people often shy away from poetry. They think it is too difficult or boring. They find it hard to find time to read. Believe me, poetry is that powerful tool which enables us not only to convey our thoughts, feelings and emotions, but also to unburden our very souls most effectively. Poets are God’s chosen people blessed with His special love and can definitely influence the world to make it a more beautiful place. In addition, the ability to rhyme thoughts into words is so fulfilling. I feel so very blessed to be able to write out my thoughts in rhyming couplets. I know it has enabled me successfully voice human joys, fears, thoughts, emotions etc. 

Finally, the pen is surely mightier than the sword and if there were more poets than terrorists, what a wonderful world we would be living in!

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!

Link:

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

Book Links:

http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/17246306-wings-of-the-heart!

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 
Do you have any favorite authors?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Listen to this now:

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

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

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

The doorbell rang.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He sat down and crossed his legs.

He crossed his fingers and I crossed my heart.

He smiled.

I asked: “Is this a mirage?”

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

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

All he said was: “We did.”

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

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

 

Author Bio

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

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

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

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

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

Links:

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

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

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

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

A simple question, but a complex answer.

First off, I’d like to thank Marie for allowing me to visit her blog today! My second novel is about to be released later this month, but you’ll learn all about that later.

Recently, a friend of mine asked a group of us to answer a question for her. Keep in mind, the group is a very talented gathering of people. And while most of us had had some success getting short stories published, I was the only one who’d made the leap to novels. She’d been mulling it over in her mind for a few months and couldn’t come up with an answer. Her question was this: 

“What does it take to be a writer?”

My initial response to her was to ask her if she wanted to know what it took to be a writer or an author. I asked her this because there’s a difference. Anyone can write. My kids write every day at school, you’ve probably sent a dozen emails this week alone. Writing is not hard. Being an author, though, that’s a different story. Every author is a writer, but not every writer is an author. This is what I told her. 

First, it takes courage. Tons of it. It's no easy thing to hit that send button. Confidence is good, but it comes with time. Courage is more important at the start.

Being willing to see errors when pointed out, and learn from them. There's a difference between an opinion and a valid crit. Sometimes, the opinions are understandable and you should change something. Other times, you're going to go with what you wrote originally. A crit, however, is different. That's a comment about something that really doesn't work (putting the wrong name of a city, for example), technical help (should be went to the store, not had to the store!), or helping you find the holes in your story. If you want to be an author, you have to get ready to have people tear your 'baby' to pieces. 

Perseverance. It takes time. Time to get the contract (shall we play rejection letter lotto today? I've got lots of cards!), time for it to go from signing to release, time put into marketing (even the big Houses are going to expect you to do some), and time for readers to discover your book. Unless you've somehow got the name recognition already (Amanda Knox, Michael Jackson, a former President, or Brad Pitt), you will not get stellar sales out of the gate. It can take months, even years of concentrated effort to gain a loyal enough following that the royalty payments are going to buy you more than something to eat off the dollar menu at McDonalds.

Seriously, don't sweat the small stuff like adverb usage, tell vs. show, active vs. passive, and any of the two dozen so-called rules of good writing. Spelling, grammar, punctuation - as long as they're not blatantly bad, most EICs will look past that as something that can be easily corrected in editing/proofreading. As my wonderful late Big Brother told me, "Did it sell? Then it's good." The other stuff, eh, it's just guidelines. The story has to be engaging and grab the attention of the reader. I've read stories that followed 'the rules' - and rejected them because they were dry pieces of cardboard without any depth. Or made my eyeballs want to bleed.

An author's going to write, revise, cry, revise some more, and polish it within a millimeter of its life. A writer's going to slap something onto a piece of paper and call it good.

In the end, it’s your decision if you’re an author or a writer. Do the rewards outweigh the risks? Do you want to invest the time and work to market yourself? No one can make that decision for you.

Guest Blogger Bio 

Born in the late 60's, KateMarie has lived most of her life in the Pacific NW. While she's always been creative, she didn't turn towards writing until 2008. She found a love for the craft. With the encouragement of her husband and two daughters, she started submitting her work to publishers. When she's not taking care of her family, KateMarie enjoys attending events for the Society for Creative Anachronism. The SCA has allowed her to combine both a creative nature and love of history. She currently resides with her family and three cats in what she likes to refer to as "Seattle Suburbia".

Links:

Twitter: @DaughterHauk

FB: http://www.facebook.com/pages/KateMarie-Collins/217255151699492

Blog: http://www.katemariecollins.wordpress.com

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