Suzanne Tyrpak--Who's Imagining All This?

Indie Chick Cheryl Bradshaw--Just Me and James Dean

2012-02-11T19:02:00.000-08:00

Indie Chick, Cheryl Bradshaw, is a go-getter. She's great at social networking and she pursues her dreams. Read her story from the Indie Chick Anthology.

Just Me and James Dean

by Cheryl Bradshaw

When I was a little girl I used to make up stories at bedtime for my younger sister, Michelle. The most vivid centered on a boy and a girl who received a piece of gum for Halloween in their trick-or-treat bag, and when they chewed it, they were transported to a magical land where they were granted unlimited wishes. Even at such a young age, the process of concocting stories was effortless. My mind revolved like the reel of a movie spinning inside my head.

I spent many hours daydreaming as a child. Back then everything was as beautiful and white as a freshly painted fence. I fantasized about the day I would get married, the children I would have, the house I would own, and the life I would live when I was all grown up.

When I was a teenager, my mind still swirled with girlish hopes and dreams. I remember lying on my bed in my room staring at a poster on my wall of James Dean. He was hunkered down on the seat of a motorcycle, and Marilyn Monroe was perched behind him with her arms wrapped around his waist, and her head resting on his shoulder. I wanted to jump into the poster like the girl in A-Ha’s Take on Me video and ride off into life’s highway, just me and James. Together, forever.

When I became an adult and moved out on my own to attend college at the tender age of eighteen, I thought I had my whole world figured out. I’d developed a slight obsession with Agatha Christie and knew mysteries and thrillers were the perfect genre for me as a writer. All kinds of ideas flowed for the first novel, and I thought I was on my way. There was just one problem: I never started writing.

Why?

I wasn’t prepared for the events that were about to take place in my life or how they would affect my journey. Life didn’t turn out to be the dream I thought it would be, and I struggled—a lot, and faced challenges and trials that at times seemed more than I could bear. My relationships didn’t always work out, and all the babies I hoped to have didn’t come like I’d planned. There were times when I felt like my life was like a shattered mirror, and I was on my hands and knees desperately searching for all the pieces of myself so I could glue them back together and feel whole again. During those times I wondered how many other women out there in the world felt the same exact way.

Time went on and I struggled, but eventually I picked myself back up and I healed. With a new lease on life and a positive attitude about what I’d overcome, I thought about writing again. In 2009 I wrote Black Diamond Death, the first novel in my Sloane Monroe series. Sinnerman followed six months later and now I’m hard at work on the third, I Have a Secret.

As I sit here and write this, I’m shocked that I am being so candid. Normally, I safeguard my feelings. To say I’m a private person is an understatement, but I feel compelled to get this out. My message in all of this is to never lose sight of your hopes and dreams. Never forget who you are, where you came from, and what you are capable of accomplishing in your life. And if you have a passion, foster it with everything you have inside you. Let it shine. Let it breathe. Let it be.

When I pondered about the dedication I would use for Sinnerman, my direction was clear and I wrote the following:

This book is dedicated to anyone who’s ever had a dream. We have but one life, and one opportunity to live it. Make it last, make it count, and make it the best it can be. Live your dreams, I know I am.

Today, I’m no longer waiting for James Dean to ride up on his shiny black motorcycle. I’ve fallen for a different kind of boy now, one who dreams of wide open spaces and a simple life. One who wants to be a cowboy when he grows up. Now the poster I see in my visions is one of man hoisting me up on the back of his trusty steed while we ride away together into the Wyoming sunset.

If you asked me ten years ago if this was the life I thought I wanted, my answer might have been no, but if you asked me today I would say I’m right where I’m supposed to be. My life isn’t perfect, the challenges are still there, and I still have a lot to learn about myself. But no matter what the future holds for me, I know one thing for sure: I’ll never stop writing.

*******

This is one story from Indie Chicks: 25 Women 25 Personal Stories available on Amazon and Barnes & Noble. To read all of the stories, buy your copy today.

*******

Cheryl’s book’s on Amazon:

Black Diamond Death (Sloane Monroe Series—Book One)

Sinnerman (Sloane Monroe Series—Book Two)

Whispers of Murder (A Novella)

To learn more about Cheryl, visit her here:

The Kindle Coffee-Break Collection Volume 2 is Out!

2012-02-08T10:08:00.000-08:00

The Kindle Coffee-Break Collection, Volume 2 is now available, and my short story, Toe, is included. Toe was inspired by an accident I suffered at work this past summer--resulting in the loss of one of my fave digits. I wrote the story while I was laid up in rehab (more like a nursing home) and pretty much drugged out of my mind. But, have no fear, I edited the story during my more lucid moments.

This is the second collection of short stories offered by Mark Williams International Digital Publishing and author, Saffina Desforges in the Kindle Coffee-Break series. Please check it out!

Here's a description:

Saffina Desforges is the Kindle-UK best-selling author of 'Sugar & Spice' and 'Snow White': Book 1 of the the 'Rose Red' crime thriller series. ('Rapunzel' will be released early 2012)

Saffina says:

If you're like us, you'll have found that since you got your e-reader you've been reading far more than you used to.

And while it's great to snuggle up in a cozy chair for a few hours and read a great book in one sitting like in the good old days, (when a book was made of paper and ink - anyone out there old enough to remember?) with an e-reader in your pocket, briefcase or handbag you can now read anywhere, whenever you have fifteen minutes spare.

Of course unless you're gifted in some way you can't read a full length book in fifteen minutes, or in your lunch session, or your coffee break, or waiting at the dentist's, or for the kids to come out of school. But you can read a short story.

There are a lot of short-story anthologies out there with different themes and genres, and if you want all sci-fi, or all romance, or all zombies then there's plenty to choose from. But when we looked around for a variety pack - a pot-pourri of mixed genre short stories so as readers we could dip into what we fancied and try something new as well - we found a gap in the market.

So we got together with some of the finest new and previously published short-story authors and collated the 'Saffina Desforges Presents...' collection of varied genre and varied length short stories.

We hope you enjoy reading them as much as we enjoyed putting this collection together.

Look out for volumes 3 coming soon to a Kindle near you!

Indie Chick Dani Amore--Writing from a Flour Sack

2012-02-05T08:39:00.000-08:00

Please welcome Indie Chick, crime novelist, Dani Amore to my blog this week. Like me, Dani has a background in advertising--and, like me, she's glad to be out of it. Another inspiring story from the Indie Chick Anthology -- all proceeds benefit breast cancer research.

WRITING FROM A FLOUR SACK

Dani Amore

Fact: I was born on a bathroom floor. Literally. My arrival into this world was followed seconds later by an unceremonious drop onto the cold tile of St. John’s Hospital in Detroit, Michigan.

You see, I was the fifth out of six children. My mother knew my delivery would be fast, but the nurse at the hospital insisted she go to the bathroom before the doctor arrived.

Later, after the drama and I was pronounced healthy, my mother told the doctor that the nurse should have listened to her, that she had warned the nurse that the baby (me) was going to arrive any second. That, having already delivered four children, she knew her body pretty well.

The doctor said, “Five kids, huh? Maybe you should tell your husband to keep it in his pants.”

True story.

***

Both of my parents were born in Italy. They emigrated to the U.S. in the 1950s. My father always said the biggest difference between Italy and America at that time was that you could work your ass off in Italy and have nothing to show for it. If you worked hard in America, you could eventually become wealthy. He started a construction company and worked 6 days a week, from dawn to dusk. Eventually, he was successful.

My mother raised six children.

She is a strong woman.

Both she and my father share a love of aphorisms.

The one I remember most? “A well-made flour sack stands on its own.”

It was almost like a mantra with her.

At a key point in my writing life, that phrase came in handy.

***

So there I am. I’ve got a full-time job in advertising. I’m writing about products that suck, working for people I can’t stand, and with two good friends, drinking every night after work. At a little bar not far from the office. I’m averaging about five or six drinks a night. Every weeknight. More on the weekends.

But on those weekend mornings, I’m writing fiction. Just short stories that I try to picture in The Paris Review.

Everything gets rejected with remarkable efficiency.

One night, probably half in the bag, I come across THE DAY OF THE JACKAL on television. The original movie is pretty campy and the remake with Bruce Willis is a pure load of crap. But the book. The novel by Frederick Forsyth is one of my all-time favorites.

The scene on television is the best part of the movie: It’s where the Jackal is sighting in his rifle. He paints a little face on a small melon, then blows it apart from 500 yards away.

There’s no epiphany. I go to bed. But as I toss and turn, vodka fumes in a cloud around my pillow, I think about the narrative structure of the story. I’ve read the book several times. Even have a collector’s edition. The chase. The tension. The violence.

When I wake up the next morning, I make an especially strong pot of coffee. I push aside my short literary fiction, and start a new story.

It’s about a hitman and a female escort.

Later that day, during some interminable meeting where everyone is throwing out insidious phrases like “let’s get on the same page,” and “think outside the box,” I realized what I was doing.

I was writing to please others, instead of focusing on the kind of stories and books I like.

Crime fiction. Thrillers. Suspense.

I had forgotten one of my mother’s cardinal rules.

A well-made flour sack stands on its own.

***

I know it sounds melodramatic. But the truth is, everything changed after that night. I still despised the advertising industry, but I no longer let it bother me so much. I begged off going to the bar with my friends, instead choosing to work out and then get some writing done in the evenings.

Eventually, I finished several crime novels. Even landed a big New York literary agent.

But a funny thing happened. My agent, and publishers, seemed to have endless debates about how to market me. Should I be a hardboiled crime novelist? A thriller writer? A traditional mystery author?

There were suggestions to change this book and change that one. Then change it back. Then change it to something else.

But now I had learned. I was smarter.

I told them thanks, but no thanks.

It was time to stand up and be the writer I wanted to be.

So I became an indie author.

And when my first book became a Top 10 Mystery on Amazon, I knew I had made the right decision.

Never underestimate the power of an Italian mother armed with an aphorism.

Dani’s Books on Amazon:

To learn more about Dani, visit her at http://www.daniamore.com

Valentine Blog Hop -- Hot Historicals

2012-02-04T18:15:00.001-08:00

I'm Part of the Valentine Hop

February 1-14, 2012

The Valentine Blog Hop is a fun set of contests and giveaways Hosted by Book Luvin Babes and spans across 25 blogs!

To play along you need to enter the contest for one or more of the blogs participating (please enter mine!).

Each blog will host their own contest and offer their own prizes.

The winners from those contests will be entered to win the Grand Prize!

Step One: Enter My Hot Historicals Contest

It's easy--just follow my blog, and join my email list by sending me an email at:

Suzanne dot Tyrpak at gmail dot com

Five winners will receive all of my books in whatever eformat you prefer.

And one will be entered for the Grand Prize

Novels: Vestal Virgin--Suspense in Ancient Rome

Hetaera--Suspense in Ancient Greece

Short Stories: Dating My Vibrator (and other true fiction)

Ghost Plane and Other Disturbing Tales

The winner will be notified on February 14 and their name will then go into the drawing to win the Grand Prize at the Book Luvin Babes Website

What is the Grand Prize?

First Grand Prize is an Amazon Gift Card for $75.00

Second Prize is this highly customer rated

Sterling Silver Black and White Round Diamond Heart Pendant

Step 2: Enter the Other Contests

For more chances to win be sure to enter the other contests

and giveaways by simply visiting the

Valentine Hop Main Page and click on

the links for the other Valentine Blog Hop participants!

Happy Valentine's Day and good luck!

Cozy Up Book Hop Winners!

2012-01-30T07:30:00.000-08:00

Winners Announced for the Cozy Up Blog Hop!

Thank you to everyone who stopped by my blog for the Blog Hop. I've chosen 5 Winners, and I'll be contacting you by email and sending you all my books in the eformat of your choice.

Deciding on the winners was tough...so tough that I will offer everyone who entered my contest their choice of one of my books. I need email addresses for Lilah and desitheblonde.

drum roll...

The winners are:

Dayle

Sarah

Barbara

Krysykat

Denise Z

Look for my email everyone

Thank you!

Indie Chick Anne R. Allen--A Kinky Adventure

2012-01-27T19:14:00.000-08:00

This week I'm delighted to have Anne R. Allen stop by my blog. Anne's contribution to the Indie Chicks Anthology is her wild ride in the world of publishing! I'm sure you'll enjoy her story.

A KINKY ADVENTURE IN ANGLOPHILIA

By Anne R. Allen

When I started writing funny women’s fiction fifteen years ago, if anybody had given me a realistic idea of my chances for publication, I’d have chosen a less stressful hobby, like do-it-yourself brain surgery, professional frog herding, or maybe staging an all-Ayatollah drag revue in downtown Tehran.

As a California actress with years of experience of cattle-drive auditions, greenroom catfights and vitriolic reviewers, I thought I had built up enough soul-calluses to go the distance. But nothing had prepared me for the glacial waiting periods; the bogus, indifferent and/or suddenly-out-of-business agents; and the heartbreaking, close-but-no-cigar reads from big-time editors—all the rejection horrors that make the American publishing industry the impenetrable fortress it has become.

But some of us are too writing-crazed to stop ourselves. I was then, as now, sick in love with the English language.

I had three novels completed. A fourth had run as a serial in a California entertainment weekly. One of my stories had been short-listed for an international prize, and a play had been produced to good reviews. I was bringing in a few bucks—mostly with short pieces for local magazines and freelance editing.

But meantime, my savings had evaporated along with my abandoned acting career; my boyfriend had ridden his Harley into the Big Sur sunset; my agent was hammering me to write formula romance; and I was contemplating a move to one of the less fashionable neighborhoods of the rust belt.

Even acceptances turned into rejections: a UK zine that had accepted one of my stories folded. But when the editor sent the bad news, he mentioned he’d taken a job with a small UK book publisher—and did I have any novels?

I sent him one my agent had rejected as “too over the top.” Within weeks, I was offered a contract by my new editor—a former BBC comedy writer—for FOOD OF LOVE. Included was an invitation to come over the pond to do some promotion.

So I rented out my beach house, packed my bags and bought a ticket to Gainsborough, Lincolnshire, where my new publishers had recently moved into a 19th century former textile mill on the banks of the river Trent—the river George Eliot fictionalized as “the Floss.”

George Eliot. I was going to be working and living only a few hundred yards from the ruins of the house where she wrote her classic novel about the 19th century folk who lived and died by the power of Lincolnshire’s great tidal river. Maybe some of that greatness would rub off on me.
At the age of… well, I’m not telling…I was about to have the adventure of my life.

I knew the company published mostly erotica, but was branching into mainstream and literary fiction. They had already published the first novel of a distinguished poet, and a famous Chicago newspaper columnist was in residence, awaiting the launch of his new book.

But when I arrived, I found the great Chicagoan had left in a mysterious fit of pique, the “erotica” was seriously hard core kink, and the old building on the Trent was more of the William Blake Dark Satanic variety than George Elliot’s bucolic “Mill on the Floss.”

Some of my fears subsided when I was greeted by a friendly group of unwashed, fiercely intellectual young men who presented me with generous quantities of warm beer, cold meat pies and galleys to proof. After a beer or two, I found myself almost comprehending their northern accents.

I held it together until I saw my new digs: a grimy futon and an old metal desk, hidden behind stacks of book pallets in the corner of an unheated warehouse, about a half a block from the nearest loo. My only modern convenience was an ancient radio abandoned by a long-ago factory girl.

I have to admit to some tears of despair.

Until, from the radio, Big Ben chimed six o’clock.

That’s six pm, GMT.

Greenwich Mean Time. The words hit me with all the sonorous power of Big Ben itself. I had arrived at the mean, the middle, the center that still holds—no matter what rough beasts might slouch through the cultural deserts of the former empire. This was where my language, my instrument, was born.

I clutched my galley-proof to my heart. I might still be a rejected nobody in the land of my birth—but I’d landed on the home planet: England. And there, I was a published novelist. Just like George Eliot.

Three years later, I returned to California, older, fatter (the English may not have the best food, but their BEER is another story) and a lot wiser. That Chicagoan’s fit of pique turned out to be more than justified. The company was swamped in debt. They never managed to get me US distribution. Shortly before my second book THE BEST REVENGE was to launch, the managing partner withdrew his capital, sailed away and mysteriously disappeared off his yacht—his body never found. The company sputtered and died.

And I was back in the slush pile again.

But I had a great plot for my next novel.

Unfortunately, nobody wanted it. I was now tainted with the “published-to-low-sales-numbers label and my chances were even worse than before.

So I wrote two more novels. Nobody wanted them either.

Then I started a blog. I figured I could at least let other writers benefit from my mistakes. My blog followers grew. And grew. The blog won some awards. My Alexa and Klout ratings got better and better. Finally, publishers started approaching ME. (There’s a moral for writers here—social networking works.)

And finally, six years later, another publisher, Popcorn Press, fell in love with FOOD OF LOVE and sent me a contract. Soon after, they contracted to publish THE BEST REVENGE, too.

And this September, a brand new indie ebook publisher called Mark Williams International Digital Publishing asked if I had anything else ready to publish.

Just happen to have a few unpubbed titles handy, said I.

He liked them.

So in October and November of 2011, those three new comic mysteries will appear as ebooks: THE GATSBY GAME, GHOSTWRITERS IN THE SKY, and SHERWOOD, LTD (that’s the novel inspired by my English adventures.) Popcorn Press will publish paper versions in 2012. THE BEST REVENGE debuted as an ebook in December, with the paper book to follow in February.

A fifteen-year journey finally seems to be paying off.

Did I make some mistakes? Oh yeah—a full set of them. But would I wish away my English adventures?

Not a chance.

*******

Links:

Blog http://annerallen.blogspot.com

Twitter @annerallen

Authorpages: At Amazon.com , at amazon.co.uk , on Facebook

SHERWOOD, LTD

(Romantic comedy/mystery: MWiDP) A penniless socialite becomes a 21^st century Maid Marian, but is “Robin” planning to kill her? Buy at amazon.co.uk , amazon.com, or Barnes and Noble

THE BEST REVENGE

(Romantic comedy/mystery: Popcorn Press) A suddenly-broke 1980s celebutante runs off to California with nothing but her Delorean and her designer furs, looking for her long-lost gay best friend—and finds herself accused of murder. Buy at amazon.co.uk or amazon.com and in paper at Popcorn Press or in paper at Amazon.com .

Cozy Up Book Hop

2012-01-24T19:17:00.000-08:00

The Cozy Up Book Hop is on! Sponsored by Mommy Reads Too Much!

I'll be giving away a collection of all my ebooks, including my novels: Vestal Virgin--Suspense in Ancient Rome, Hetaera--Suspense in Ancient Athens and my short story collections: Dating My Vibrator (and other true fiction) and Ghost Plane and Other Disturbing Tales. That's a $9.96 value. To enter, all you have to do is leave a comment on this post--tell me why you want these books! I'm willing to give away 5 of these packages in whatever eformat you prefer!

So cozy up! And make sure you visit all of these cool blogs:

1. Mommy Reads too Much	2. eReading on the Cheap 18+	3. The Bookish Snob 18+
4. Olivia Hardin - Writer	5. Taking Time for Mommy	6. Spell Checked by C. G. Powell
7. Stephanie Nelson Tid Bits Blog	8. The Scribblings of Sarah	9. Practical Frugality
10. Common Centsability	11. Simply Stacie	12. Enchanted Writings - M. R. Polish
13. Sason and Pobi	14. Makobi Scribe	15. Lisa Rayns Wanted: Vampire
16. Acting Balanced	17. Day by Day in Our World	18. Blog of LK Rigel
19. A writing and publishing adventure	20. Vernon Baker, Author	21. Romance Author Lynn Hubbard
22. Lizzy Ford, YA & romance ebooks	23. Oh My Gosh Beck!	24. The Musings of a Southern Gal--Katrina Parker Will
25. A Life Full of Laughter	26. Susan Heim on Parenting	27. Whos Imagining All This? +18
28. The Kids Fun Review	29. Dawn @ Guiding Light	30. Asha Butterflys
31. Emilys Frugal Tips	32. Wendy and the Lost Boys +18	33. Supernal Living with Dana Taylor
34. Cuzinlogic	35. Authors By Authors - Author Kiki Howell 18+	36. Beck Valley Books
37. At The Maple Table	38. My Life. One Story at a Time.	39. How Was Your Day?
40. MamaNYC	41. Helen Hanson Thriller Author	42. Glamorous Girl : : Fashion Inspiration
43. Frugal Experiments	44. Midwestern Moms	45. Making Time For Mommy
46. My Unentitled Life	47. More from Mom	48. Mary @ Sweeping Me (Int)
49. CountryLife4Me	50. Khloe Kamalis ~ The Muse Slave	51. Two Little Cavaliers
52. Reading It All	53. Jennifer Zane-Author of Gnome On The Range	54. Lola James~ Paranormal Romance Author
55. Novice Mama	56. The Beloved World by Solange nicole	57. Jenns BlahBlahBlog
58. The Best Scent Store Blog	59. GiftandMoreStoreBlog	60. The Bookworm Huns Top Ten Books Id Read Again
61. Tiannas Coupon Cafe

Indie Chick Sarah Woodbury -- Turning Medieval

2012-01-21T22:37:00.000-08:00

I'm delighted to welcome novelist Sarah Woodbury back to my blog. This Indie Chick writes wonderful stories about Medieval Wales. Her road to writing required perserverance in the face of rejection. Please read her story from The Indie Chicks Anthology.

Turning Medieval

by Sarah Woodbury

Sometimes it’s easy to pinpoint those moments in your life where everything is suddenly changed. When you look across the room and say to yourself, I’m going to marry him. Or stare down at those two pink lines on the pregnancy test, when you’re only twenty-two and been married for a month and a half and are living on only $800 a month because you’re both still in school and my God how is this going to work?

And sometimes it’s a bit harder to remember.

Until I was eleven, my parents tell me they thought I was going to be a ‘hippy’. I wandered through the trees, swamp, and fields of our 2 ½ acre lot, making up poetry and songs and singing them to myself. I’m not sure what happened by the time I’d turned twelve, whether family pressures or the realities of school changed me, but it was like I put all that creativity and whimsicalness into a box on a high shelf in my mind. By the time I was in my late-teens, I routinely told people: ‘I haven’t a creative bone in my body.’ It makes me sad to think of all those years where I thought the creative side of me didn’t exist.

When I was in my twenties and a full-time mother of two, my husband and I took our family to a picnic with his graduate school department. I was pleased at how friendly and accepting everyone seemed.

And then one of the other graduate students turned to me out of the blue and said, ‘do you really think you can jump back into a job after staying home with your kids for five or ten years?’

I remember staring at him, not knowing what to say. It wasn’t that I hadn’t thought about it, but that it didn’t matter—it couldn’t matter—because I had this job to do and the consequences of staying home with my kids were something I’d just have to face when the time came.

Fast forward ten years and it was clear that this friend had been right in his incredulity. I was earning $15/hr. as a contract anthropologist, trying to supplement our income while at the same time holding down the fort at home. I remember the day it became clear that this wasn’t working. I was simultaneously folding laundry, cooking dinner, and slogging through a report I didn’t want to write, trying to get it all in before the baby (number four, by now) woke up. I put my head down, right there on the dryer, and cried.

It was time to seek another path. Time to follow my heart and do what I’d wanted to do for a long time, but hadn’t had the courage, or the belief in myself to make it happen.

At the age of thirty-seven, I started my first novel, just to see if I could. I wrote it in six weeks and it was bad in a way that all first books are bad. It was about elves and magic stones and will never see the light of day. But it taught me, I can do this!

My husband told me, ‘give it five years,’ and in the five years that followed, I experienced rejection along my newfound path. A lot of it. Over seventy agents, and then dozens and dozens of editors (once I found an agent), read my books and passed them over. Again and again.

Meanwhile, I just wrote. A whole series. Then more books, for a total of eight, seven of which I published in 2011.

And I’m happy to report that, even though I still think of myself as staid, my extended family apparently has already decided that those years where I showed little creativity were just a phase. The other day, my husband told me of several conversations he had, either with them or overheard, in which it became clear they thought I was so alternative and creative—so far off the map—that I didn’t even remember there was a map.

I’m almost more pleased about that than anything else. Almost. Through writing, I’ve found a community of other writers, support and friendship from people I hadn’t known existed a few years ago, and best of all, thousands of readers have found my books in the last year. Here’s to thousands more in the years to come . . .

Links:

My web page: http://www.sarahwoodbury.com/

My Twitter code is: http://twitter.com/#!/SarahWoodbury

On Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/sarahwoodburybooks

Links to my books: Amazon and Amazon UK
Smashwords BarnesandNoble Apple

Freedom of Speech at Risk: Sign the Petition Against Internet Censorship

2012-01-18T05:23:00.000-08:00

Wikipedia is blacked-out today in protest against two pending bills. Quoting Google:

Millions of Americans oppose SOPA and PIPA because these bills would censor the Internet and slow economic growth in the U.S.

Two bills before Congress, known as the Protect IP Act (PIPA) in the Senate and the Stop Online Piracy Act (SOPA) in the House, would censor the Web and impose harmful regulations on American business. Millions of Internet users and entrepreneurs already oppose SOPA and PIPA.

The Senate will begin voting on January 24th. Please let them know how you feel. Sign this petition urging Congress to vote NO on PIPA and SOPA before it is too late.

For more information, check out this article from Fox News, and this video from the Associated Press.

Please take action.

Indie Chick--Suzanne Tyrpak

2012-01-13T08:41:00.000-08:00

Sometimes life changes in a day. I work for an airline, and this past summer a gigantic jet-stair ran over my toes. That got my attention. I’d been asking for a break, and boy did I get one! My story has a happy ending: the accident gave me time to finish my recently released novel, Hetaera—Suspense in Ancient Athens. It also gave me time to connect with the Indie Chicks; what a fantastic group of women! We wrote an anthology together and all the proceeds go to fighting breast cancer—the disease that took my mother. I hope you enjoy, Holes, my contribution to the Indie Chicks Anthology. Sometimes discovering our holes, our weakness, allows us to become more compassionate and ultimately more whole.

Holes

I used to think I had to be perfect. Of course, I fell short of perfection on a regular basis so I frequently felt like a failure.

The only way to prevent failure is to hide. If we don’t put ourselves out there, we can’t fail.

To prevent myself from failing, I hid in a fantasy world. As a young child, I longed to be a ballerina. I loved to dance, but more than that, I wanted to escape into the fantasy world of the ballet. I wanted to live inside a fairytale, and in my mind, I did. I invented worlds I could escape to, perfect worlds that seemed more real to me than life. Meanwhile, I ate, and ate, and ate. Not ideal, if you want to be a ballerina. My reality never matched my inner world.

I created this pattern, this external and internal disparity, throughout my life. I brought it into my marriage, convincing myself that my marriage was perfect, while in reality it was a mess. Instead of leaving, I found escape in writing. I lost myself other times: ancient Egypt, ancient Greece, ancient Rome—worlds as far away from my reality as possible. In my writing, I disappeared for hours, days, years. I got a job working at an airline so I could travel and do research. I got an agent. I felt sure I would be published.

Then my world fell apart. After nineteen years of marriage, my husband wanted a divorce. I fought it. Divorce didn’t fit my idea of perfection, my fairytale. I viewed this loss as a disaster, but in truth it was an opening, a hole leading me to greater understanding and compassion for myself and others.

I was broke, trying to live on what I made at the airline. I was lonely. I had no time to write. Worst of all, I had to admit my life wasn’t perfect. I wasn’t perfect. Forced to accept myself with all my imperfections, I discovered that the more I could accept myself, the more I could accept others. Even my ex-husband. To this day, we remain friends.

Because I no longer had time to sit down and write for hours, the kind of time it takes to write a novel, I wrote short stories. I wrote about my experience, about my struggles as a woman of fifty going through divorce and entering the dating world. Initially, I wrote the stories for myself as therapy. Then I began to share the stories with my writing group. They encouraged me to submit the stories to magazines, and several were published. I read a couple of stories at our local library and people laughed. Then my good friend, Blake Crouch, convinced me to publish the stories on Kindle. A frightening prospect. What if my stories weren’t good enough? What if they weren’t perfect?

At first I resisted. I’d had two literary agents, and a longtime dream of being traditionally published. Self-publishing didn’t fit my idea of perfection. But, in reality, I no longer had an agent, and I hadn’t worked on a novel for several years. What did I have to lose? Nothing. So I published Dating My Vibrator (and other true fiction).

My world changed, not because I was finally published, but because I changed. I finally found the confidence to pursue my dream despite my imperfections. I found the courage to stop hiding and put myself out into the world. This freed me.

I rewrote my novel, Vestal Virgin—suspense in ancient Rome. Originally, my characters were a bit flat. Why? Because they were too perfect! I hadn’t looked at the manuscript for two years, and a lot had changed for me in that time. I rewrote the book with a cold eye: cutting, digging deeper. My characters became multifaceted, real people with flaws.

I became busier and busier, caught in a whirlwind, trying to hold down a full-time job, write, promote my books and have a life. Trying, once again, to be perfect.

And then the universe stepped in.

I had an accident at work. While moving a jet stair (which weighed over 1,000 pounds) away from the aircraft, my right foot got crushed. I fell, screaming, onto the tarmac while passengers onboard the plane watched. A coworker rushed me to the hospital for the first of three emergency surgeries. I suffered intense pain due to nerve damage, broken and dislocated toes and, ultimately, amputation of a toe. As I write this, I’m still recovering.

I spent five weeks at a nursing home, a good place for me (even though most of the patients were over eighty years old), because it would have been close to impossible for me to take care of myself at home. While there, I had a chance to meet a lot of the patients and residents. All of us had obvious holes.

I learned a lot from the other patients. And I was forced to face my own mortality. Aging offers us the gift of acceptance. In order to age gracefully, we must the release the idea of perfection. We learn there are some things we can change, and some things we must accept. And, when we accept what is, we may find the good in even the most difficult situations. We learn to accept the holes in ourselves and others. We even welcome imperfection.

Since the accident, I’ve been thinking about holes a lot. I've been thinking about being whole, in relation to loss. How can loss make a person whole? I’ve learned that loss can make a person strong, more self-reliant. Loss can make us more compassionate to ourselves and others.

Where I had a toe, there’s now a hole, and that hole reminds me that I’m not perfect. But, despite my imperfection, I am whole. I am me. It would be ridiculous to think that I am any less of a person, because I’m missing a toe, because I have a hole. Just as it’s ridiculous for any of us to think we must be perfect.

Physical wounds can’t be hidden as easily as emotional and psychological wounds. And that’s a gift. Physical wounds make us confront our mortality, our humanity. Physical wounds can’t be denied. They are tangible and force us to accept ourselves, with all our imperfections.

It's impossible to get through life without being wounded. Some wounds are obvious. Others are internal, even spiritual: the loss of the ability to trust, to connect deeply, to hold a friend and know that you are loved.

We run away from wounds. Try not to look at them. We think they're signs of weakness, but our wounds—the holes in us—provide a doorway, a soft spot in our armor. We walk around armored, protecting ourselves with platitudes and false smiles, never touching our own vulnerabilities, afraid to share our tender rawness with another or even with ourselves.

If we can touch the tender spots, allow ourselves to feel fear, sorrow, loss, we become closer to wholeness. The more we accept our holes, the more compassion we can have for others. When we feel compassion we are able to connect. We are able to expose our soft underbelly to another human being and share the salt of our tears, the sweetness of our joy. That’s what I want to write about, that’s what I want to share, because salt makes all the difference between a bland, protected life, and a true life: pulsing, bloody, messy, passionate and truly whole.

Flaws, or holes, are what make a character seem real—in life and in fiction. Perfection is impermanent, an illusion. A person who seems too perfect is repulsive. We don’t trust him. We know that person can’t be real. Holes speak of truth. Holes allow us to connect, to ourselves and to each other. Our holes make us human, make us beautiful. Holes allow the light to shine through.

If someone had asked me last spring, “Would you give up a toe in order to learn, in order to have time to write your next novel?” I might have said, “Yes.”

Funny, how life works.

Proceeds from The Indie Chicks Anthology benefit breast cancer research. Just .99 cents!

L.C. Evans--A Five Star Life

2012-01-12T07:49:00.000-08:00

I opened my email today and saw a message from Red Adept that I'd hoped never to see, a message much more devastating than a mere one star review for one of my books: The World has Lost...L.C. Evans

I met Linda on Kindleboards. She welcomed me, became a mentor and a friend. She read my stories and liked them! Gave me encouragement, made me laugh. Her book, We Interrupt This Date, is the first book I bought for my kindle. I opened it, and couldn't stop reading. I love Linda's southern style, her warmth, her sense of humor. Her beauty as a person shines through her words.

If you haven't read Linda's books, I encourage you to do so. Buying her books will help her family pay the medical bills for Linda's battle with cancer. The world has lost a light today, but Linda shines on through her writing. Her heart still touches mine.

What a beautiful light.

Books by L.C. Evans:

We Interrupt This Date

Indie Chick Prue Batten

2012-01-09T06:52:00.000-08:00

Indie Chick Prue Batten is up this week.

Prue says, The best way to describe myself would be to use a quote written about me by Mark Williams on a recent blog (http://markwilliamsinternational.com/):

'She lives in Tasmania, has a pet Tasmanian Devil called Gisborne, eats kangaroos' testicles, has the most ridiculous one-star ever awarded on Amazon, and wrote a novel on Twitter...'

Believe it or not, most of it is true. My husband and I own a farm so we do have lots of kangaroos around, but the testicles? Ugh! As to the Tasmanian Devil? I wish I did have one for a pet, but as recently reported in the Huffington Post, http://huff.to/f3zxSd the poor little things are suffering the ravaging effects of a disease that is bringing them to the edge of extinction. Better the scientists and conservation zoos look after them than me. And I do have a one star rating on Amazon… a woman bought my first book thinking it was an embroidery book despite the blurb and then gave ME a one star despite HER mistake. And yes, myself and 50 others wrote a Jane Austen style novel on Twitter, [(#A4T) http://www.austenproject.com] which was mentioned by The Times (UK) no less as it took off earlier in the year.

Prue is a delight! Please read her story from the Indie Chicks Anthology

Mrs. So Got It Wrong Agent.

After writing forever, I decided to finally go down the independent road in 2008. At that time, it was called self-publishing and the track I decided to take was POD. Part of my reason for the move was that my books had been declared commercially viable by the UK literary consultancy that assessed them, but in every instance they were declined by the Big Six.

The only time I had any sort of meaningful comment prior to POD publication was from a highly regarded English agent who said she loved the novels and knew she would kick herself for declining but felt I lived too far away to engage with. I know I reside in the southern hemisphere, in a place called Australia, but this is a new world in which we exist. Amazingly there is a thing called email, something else called Skype and even video-conferencing, so I was rather gobsmacked at her antiquated approach. This, I felt, was the time to take my destiny in my own hands!

You see, I was getting older and with age comes a degree of intransigence and that was when I took up the POD offer… basically in a fit of disgust at the ‘old ways’.

I did everything right: good covers, great PR, super website and then a blog with which to engage with the reading public, even radio and print media interviews… you name it, I did it. Book Two came out and I continued to sell to a niche market online and in stores. At one point, my first novel took the prime display position in bricks and mortar stores, selling more than any other unknown first release for that chain.

Then, whilst working on A Thousand Glass Flowers, I had the misguided idea that it would be nice to secure an agent who could handle all this PR and marketing stuff and maybe help me push the barrow further. With the success of the first two novels under my belt, with stats of web and blog hits as well, I contacted the first Australian agent on my list.

Imagine my surprise when two days later, on a Friday afternoon, she rang me to talk business.

Her first comment after a loud monologue on her credentials was ‘Why in the hell did you POD your first two books?’ Ironic snicker followed this acid question.

‘Because I was tired of submitting the old way and getting nowhere in a very long time.

‘But you’ve signed your own death warrant.’

‘Then why are you talking to me?’

‘I am intrigued that you managed to get the web hits and the book-sales you have.’ Her tone was sarcasm incarnate. Something about good books and hard work was on the tip of my tongue.

I was so flummoxed at this point that I allowed her to ram-raid me and roast me. Heaven help me, I agreed to send her mss of the first two novels (even though they had been published!) Perhaps I am a masochist. Who knows?

She read them and sent them back slashed to pieces. These were fantasy novels about love, loss, grief and revenge, novels that have secured 5 star reviews. She had deleted every conceivable piece of emotion from the manuscripts so that they expressed nothing. If she read them right through, I’d have been surprised as she asked elementary questions about the plot resolution… questions that were answered in the denouement of each of the novels. Her editing was unbelievable, her spelling appalling and she got my name and address wrong for the return of the mss. Now remember… this is supposedly one of the top agents in my country, top obviously not equating with manners and sensibility.

When I rang her to say politely, thanks but no thanks, she lambasted me and said, ‘You are a self-fulfilling prophecy. Small-time.’

My reply was that if she had taken me on, what a good talking point she would have had about her exciting new author. As it was, I continued, I was declining any further involvement with her as my books were out there and selling.

‘You have committed professional suicide.’

***

In the last three years, this agent is the only negative in my writing career and far from depressing me, it proved to be the biggest shot of tenacity in the arm! Reverse psychology at its very best!

So guess what, Mrs. So Got it Wrong Agent, I’m having a ball. The books are now in e-form and selling well. My third novel consistently took a place in the Top 100 of Kindle novels in its category not long after publication. I’ve sold across the globe, I have a niche following, I’ve made the friends of a lifetime and I am master of my own destiny. There are two further books to be published in The Chronicles of Eirie and in a step sideways, my first ever historical fiction will be published in February.

And at this point in my life, I don’t regret not having an agent one bit!

***

Addendum: Whilst writing this piece for the anthology, I nursed my little muse, the dog who would jump up behind me on my chair and sit whilst I typed. He had terminal cancer and in the intervening time between publication of the anthology and the posting of my piece on these blogs, he has gone quietly to his rest… a brave, funny companion who was my inspiration. I dedicate the above tale to him… to Milo.

Website: http://www.pruebatten.com

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

Facebook: Prue Batten

Twitter: pruebatten

Books may be purchased at: Amazon.co.uk http://amzn.to/v2mosZ

And at Amazon.com http://amzn.to/rHBVoy

Hetaera--Suspense in Ancient Athens is FREE on Amazon through 1/10/12

2012-01-08T08:45:00.000-08:00

If you're looking for a fast-paced story about ancient Athens (and who isn't?) Hetaera--Supense in Ancient Athens is FREE on Amazon through Tuesday, January 10, 2012.

After working out a few formatting issues, I've enrolled the book in the Kindle Select program for three months. Though I wish I didn't have to remove the book from other formats like Smashwords and B&N, Vestal Virgin--Suspense in Ancient Rome has done so well in the program that I decided to go for it with Hetaera.

It's difficult to say how this will all play out. In theory, I'm against monolpolies, and I hope to put the books back on Barnes & Nobel and Smashwords as soon as the initial three month agreement is up, but sales will determine my actions. Amazon has demonstrated tremendous selling power.

Meanwhile, if you haven't had a chance, please pick up a copy of Hetaera while it's free. I'm working on book two right now, and hope to have it out this summer!

Cheryl Shireman--Queen of the Indie Chicks

2012-01-02T18:58:00.000-08:00

I met Cheryl on Facebook, through Indie Writers Unite, a wonderful group where writers help writers. Cheryl had just brought out her first book, Life is but a Dream--on the Lake and she had no idea how successful that book would become, how her life was about to change!

Cheryl posted about a dream trip to Rome with one of her favorite writers--I could tell she longed to go, but didn't think she could afford it. Years ago, I took a trip to Rome with an amazing group of writers including: Terry Brooks, John Saul and Mike Sack, Dorothy Allison, and Elizabeth Engstrom. The trip changed my life, and gave me the inspiration for my novel, Vestal Virgin. I encouraged Cheryl to take a leap of faith and go. And during that Facebook exchange, we became friends.

When she invited me to participate in the Indie Chicks Anthology I immediately agreed. What a fantastic and compassionate lady she is. Please read her story from the collection:

I Burned My Bra For This? One Woman's Fantasy

By Cheryl Shireman

I’m a Baby Boomer. Which means that I remember bell-bottoms, Happy Days, and having only three channels on the television. I played Donny Osmond albums on a record player. My parents watched Gunsmoke, and on Sunday nights we all watched The Wonderful World of Disney. In the living room. Together. On the only television we owned. Imagine that! I remember the first time I saw Bonanza in color. I remember the first time I heard about remote controls for televisions. The whole idea seemed ridiculous. With three channels, really, how often would it be needed? I remember the Watergate hearings playing on the television when I came home from school.

I also remember watching feminists (does anyone use that word anymore?) burn their bras and march for equal rights. I grew up believing that a woman deserves equal pay for equal work and that a woman is not defined by the man she marries or by the children she gives birth to. In fact, we were told that both men and children were optional. The idea seemed revolutionary at the time. It still does. Women were mad as hell and they weren’t taking it anymore. We called it Women’s Liberation, and though it was never said, it was certainly implied (and believed in most circles) that a woman who did not work was a bit inferior to a career woman. That was when such women were called housewives and not “stay at home” moms. Women were divided into two groups – those who worked and those who didn’t. Back then, no one thought that staying home and taking care of a family and home was work. The women of my generation wanted more, demanded more, and believed we were entitled to just that – more. We sometimes looked at our own mothers, most of whom did not have real jobs, as women who simply did not understand that there was more to life than being a mother. If truth be told, we thought they were a bit simple-minded and we secretly vowed to do more with our lives.

And yet…as this Baby Boomer looks at her life, I realize nothing I have ever done, or will ever do, is as important as being a mother. Not career, volunteer work, graduate school, or any creative pursuit. Nothing else even comes close to being a mother. Period.

One of my children lives half an hour away, another is one state away, and the third is on the other side of the world in Denmark. Yesterday, my husband and I spent the entire day with our two-year-old granddaughter. She then spent the night. As I write this, I hear her gentle breathing in the baby monitor positioned atop the table close to where I sit.

To say that my children, and now my granddaughter, have filled my life with love and joy is an understatement. As children, they expanded my heart in ways I could never have imagined. For the first time in my life, I not only understood, but received unconditional love. As adults, they are three people that I know I can always count on. They will always be there for me. Just as I will always be there for them. Can you say the same about your career?

There used to be a television show called Fantasy Island. People visited the island and lived out their fantasies – no matter how wild (okay, not that wild – this was primetime family tv in the seventies). Not too long ago, my husband and I had a discussion about that old tv show and asked each other – What would your fantasy be? Mine was easy. If I could have a Fantasy Island day, I would relive one day with my children. My son would be 10, which would make my daughters 4 and 2. We would spend the day doing whatever they wanted. Going to the park, going to the movies, playing games, baking cookies, or just sitting on the floor playing with Legos and Barbies. I would hug them a lot. And kiss the tops of their heads. And take tons of pictures. I wouldn’t cook. I wouldn’t clean. And I wouldn’t worry about my career.

I would watch my son show his younger sisters how to do things, like he always did in his older brother sort of way. I would watch my 2 year-old daughter follow her older 4 year-old sister around the room, shadowing her every move. Just as she did, even through their college years when they shared an apartment near Indiana University. I would watch the older sister taking care of her younger sister, as if she were her baby. Which is what she called her when she was born – my baby.

Bedtime would be later than usual on that fantasy night. I would tuck them into their beds, fresh from baths and smelling of shampoo. The girls smelling like baby lotion. My son would hug me goodnight with his long skinny arms and tell me he loves me. And I would feel the truth in that. I would tuck in my girls and tell them it is time to go to sleep. I would take extra care in covering the older girl’s feet, because she always kicked her blankets off during the night. I would kiss the baby and hold her a little longer, because I would know that, as I type this she is in Denmark which makes visiting tough.

And, as I walk down the hall and turn out the lights, I would call out to all of them, as I always did… “Goodnight. Love you. Sweet dreams. See you in the morning.”

And that would be my fantasy day. Oddly enough, it has nothing to do with my career as a writer. Even though being a writer has always been my dream. My first novel, Life is But a Dream: On the Lake, was published earlier this year. The main character, Grace Adams, is a woman facing an empty nest and the possible demise of her marriage. Grace withdraws to a secluded lake cabin to redefine her life and try to find a reason to continue living. While at the lake, Grace not only finds renewed purpose and hope, but when things take a turn for the worse at the lake, she finds a strength she never knew she possessed. The novel is thought-provoking, sometimes frightening, and often funny (just like life). It is also, very definitely, fiction.

I'm not Grace. Even though my “nest” is empty, I am enjoying this time and this new focus on my career. I am not suicidal or lacking in purpose. My husband and I both work from home (he designs websites), we live on a lake, and our schedule is our own. It is truly a wonderful time in our lives. Sometimes I have popcorn for dinner. Enough said.

But, would my current life be as wonderful if I had not pursued career and graduate school and developed the skills I am using now? Probably not. I managed to combine work and school and motherhood. I believed I could have it all, and do it all, but to be honest – the kids always came first. And being a mother is the strongest and best part of my identity. It is the thing I am most proud of. My greatest achievement. And, once in a while, I miss those days when toys where scattered across the floor, the washer was always running, and we bought eight gallons of milk a week.

If you have children at home, cherish those simple every-day moments with them. They really will be gone in the blink of an eye – sooner than you can possibly imagine. Put this book down. Now. Go sit on the floor and play a game. Pop some popcorn, put on one of their favorite movies, and cuddle up on the couch. Live that “fantasy” right now. You will never be able to recapture these moments. Enjoy them now. There is no greater gift than the love of your children. Spend the rest of your day letting it pour over you. And pour your love right back over them. You can come back to this book tonight, after they are asleep.

As I type this, I can hear my granddaughter waking up. I am shutting my computer off. Right now, I am going to go upstairs and scoop her up from her crib. She will probably wrap her little arms around my neck and ask, “Play blocks, Bomb Bomb?”

And we will play blocks.

This is one story from Indie Chicks: 25 Women 25 Personal Stories available on Amazon and Barnes & Noble. To read all of the stories, buy your copy today. All proceeds go to the Susan G. Komen Foundation for Breast Cancer.

Also included are sneak peeks into 25 novels! My novel, Life Is But a Dream: On The Lake, is one of the novel excerpts featured. It is available at most online retailers in trade paperback as well as e-book formats.

Amazon US

Amazon UK

Barnes & Noble

Peace on Earth

2011-12-23T18:28:00.000-08:00

Happy Holidays

may all beings be free from suffering

Thank you for a wonderful 2011

On Christmas Day Vestal Virgin will be free on Amazon

My Experience with Kindle Select

2011-12-20T21:37:00.000-08:00

I hestitated before posting my novel, Vestal Virgin--Suspense in Ancient Rome, in Amazon's new Kindle Select. The program allows subscribers to Amazon Prime to borrow one book per month, and writers involved in the program spit a pot of $500,000.00

The hitch was I had to remove the book from all Amazon competitors: Smashwords, Barnes&Noble, iTunes--and leave it off those sites for three months. It meant I was completey dependent on Amazon for sales.

I hesitated, but I jumped--partly because being part of Kindle Select would allow me to promote my book for free for five days of my choice. I used three of those days this past Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. In those three days the book was downloaded about 5,000 times. This gained Vestal Virgin the rank of #117 in Free in ebooks on Amazon US, #38 Free in ebooks on Amazon UK. This gained the book tremendous visibility, but it also wiped out all the also-boughts that the book has garnered in the past year. Now my also-boughts are unrelated books and freebies.

When the book went back to $3.99 yesterday the rank was not too fab: about 19,000 in Kindle in the US. I wasn't particularly pleased. What had I gained? To that date I'd only had 9 people borrow the book.

But a few hours later, things began to change. Readers were borrowing the book--a day later my "borrows" have jumped from 9 to 33. And the sales rank for the book has been hovering at just over 1,000. The book is showing up on a number of bestseller lists--for example: #2 in historical suspense.

Consequently, I'm really pleased with my experiment. We'll see if sales sustain! Here are the stats from about an hour ago (9pm Rocky Mt Time, December 20):

· Average Customer Review: See all reviews (33 customer reviews)

· Amazon Best Sellers Rank: #1,078 Paid in Kindle Store (See Top 100 Paid in Kindle Store)

o #2 in Kindle Store > Kindle eBooks > Nonfiction > History > Ancient > Rome

o #3 in Books > History > Ancient > Rome

o #7 in Books > Christian Books & Bibles > Literature & Fiction > Romance

Update Wednesday 12/21/11: Rank still dropping...

Amazon Best Sellers Rank: #828 Paid in Kindle Store (See Top 100 Paid in Kindle Store)

#1 in Kindle Store > Kindle eBooks > Nonfiction > History > Ancient > Rome
#2 in Kindle Store > Kindle eBooks > Fiction > Religious Fiction > Historical
#2 in Books > History > Ancient > Rome

Meet Indie Chick: Katherine Owen

2011-12-18T21:36:00.000-08:00

Meet Indie Chick, Katherine Owen. Read her story about hard work and perseverance, One Fictionista's Literary Bliss. All proceeds from the Indie Chicks Anthology benefit breast cancer research.

One Fictionista’s Literary Bliss

I was anointed a female fictionista by an overzealous Georgia Bulldog fan on Twitter. I immediately took it for my job description. So, here’s what you should know. I write. I write a lot. And, when I'm not writing, I think about writing a lot. You may think we're having a conversation, but invariably I'm stealing your name, asking how to spell it, and secretly describing the look on your face in five words or less in my mind. My writing tends to be dark, moody, and sometimes funny. Sometimes, it can be a bit lyrical or even literary. It’s often edgy, so be forewarned. My readers complain they can't put my books down. Or, just when they think they've figured the story out, it changes and becomes something else. My stories tend to be dark and comprised of broken heroines; even the heroes in my books have a few flaws that cause trouble. It’s true; my characters may disappoint you or surprise you or piss you off, but I think you’ll understand why they do what they do because of the way I write them. I strive to reveal the deepest underpinnings about life, about love, and about human nature, but it’s not for the faint of heart. I’ll take you through a proverbial emotional ringer before reaching resolution and it’s never as predictable as you might think. Do I sound like your kind of fictionista? Come along, darling. This way.

Something else you should know about me is that I’m a huge George Clooney fan. Maybe, Up In The Air wasn’t one of his usual gigs, but I loved that movie. And, let’s be frank, I watched ER without him for years, but it was never the same. Never. Anyway, I digress. There’s a scene in Up In The Air where he’s telling this guy to follow his dream after George has told him he’s been laid off. When I saw that scene, it was as if George was practically speaking to me because I was there, two years ago, when I was laid off from a high tech sales job, had always harbored a dream to write full-time, and went for it after that. Is it a coincidence that Up In The Air came out about the same time? I think not.

So now, this is what I do. Write. Write all the time. I’ll admit it was hard at first. It still is—hard, harrowing, humbling. Believe me, it would be easier to go out and get another high paying sales job than write for a living because writing causes me to question my mental toughness so much of the time. Can I do this? Am I good enough?

Yet, here’s what I’ve learned: you just have to turn off that voice in your head off or ignore what is being said. Sometimes, all you need to do is stand up for yourself, stop depending upon the opinions of others, and just go after what you really want.

For me, that’s writing. For you, it might be anything else, but just pursue your passion whatever it is.

With this anthology, my debut novel, Seeing Julia is featured. Seeing Julia is a labor of love and represents a lot of hard work. Truly, this book has caused me as much grief as it has joy. After I first wrote this novel, I entered it into a literary contest and promptly forgot about it. I was busy. I was taking classes at The Writer’s Studio, becoming literary savvy, and writing another novel called Not To Us.

I remember it was a Monday morning in early June of 2010 when I received a call from the president of the Pacific Northwest Writers Association telling me I was a finalist in the romance category with my entry of Seeing Julia. “What?” She asked me if I planned on attending the conference. “Well, I guess so.” Lucky for me, I attended the summer conference, bought a new outfit, and won the Zola Award and first place with Seeing Julia the night of the awards dinner. It was a surreal moment, when I had to go up to the front of the room with those seven hundred people watching and accept my award. But, truly? I was more concerned about navigating all those tables and chairs on my way up to the podium than actually seizing the moment. As word spread about my writing award win, self-doubt had already set in. It was a fluke. It was dumb luck. As high as my emotions soared about winning; they fell just as fast when literary agents still rejected my work. Yes, the win opened a number of literary agent doors for me, but I wrote several different versions of that novel when a number of them took greater interest, but then wanted to change everything about the story. One agent called me up and lectured me for forty-five minutes about the book and then promised to take a look if I made more changes. I sent her the revised manuscript, but she never called again.

This was a year ago. I was at a crossroads with my writing and myself. I kept thinking if I did what they said and changed it, yet again, I would get to the next step—literary bliss. But I wasn’t getting anywhere.

Discouraged, but still determined, I reviewed what the critiques and feedback about Seeing Julia had been. Based on those, I sifted through what I thought would need to be changed and began rewriting the story, working day and night through most of November. With just getting a few hours of sleep each night, I kept up the intense pace and by the time the novel was finished; I knew it was. I’m extremely proud of Seeing Julia. During the process of rewriting it for the last time, I reached an important pinnacle with my writing: I trusted myself. Confidence entered into the realm. And, along with it, swift understanding: I had to make my own literary bliss.

Two additional things became clear. First, it was essential for me to have complete control over the publishing of my work; and second, the publishing industry was in the midst of a perfect storm because of e-books and I needed to take full advantage. And, so I did.

In late April and early May of this year, I released two novels: Seeing Julia and Not To Us. These books are available as e-books as well as print trade paperbacks.

Many wonderful readers have responded to my work. They often reach out to me and let me know how they love my novels. I love and cherish their enthusiasm for my work.

This is literary bliss.

Of course, my family’s number one complaint is that I write too much and all the time. Now, add to that the twittering and the facebooking and the wordpressing and now google plus-ing, and checking Amazon, and taking writing classes; it's a full-time gig. But, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

The good news is that with the encouragement of my readers and confidence in my writing, I’m working on my third novel, When I See You, and hope to release this book before the end of this year. And, I already have drafts for two other novels, Saving Valentines and Finding Amy.

Oh yes, there are occasions, rare ones, when I'm not writing. That’s when I like to drink a fine wine, check in with my family, and look at my awesome view which I can see when I look up long enough from my computer screen in my writing refuge.

And so, welcome. Welcome to my little piece of the universe.

I’ll leave you with this—a philosophy I now live by, borrowed from one of the greatest women tennis players of all time: “You’ve got to take the initiative and play your game. In a decisive set, confidence is the difference.” Chris Evert

Oh, Chrissy, you are so right!

***

Also included are sneak peeks into 25 novels! My novel, Seeing Julia, is one of the novel excerpts featured. It is available at most online retailers in trade paperback as well as e-book formats.

Seeing Julia

Amazon

Amazon UK

Barnes and Noble

Apple/iTunes http://itunes.apple.com/us/book/seeing-julia/id446055623?mt=11

Smashwords (various e-book formats for Sony e-book, Kobo, Apple iBooks and Diesel)

For more information about Katherine Owen, visit these links:

Website: http://www.katherineowen.net

Blog: http://www.katherineclareowen.com

Amazon Author Page: http://www.amazon.com/Katherine-Owen/e/B004Z3BG3I/ref=ntt_dp_epwbk_0

Follow her on Twitter: http://twitter.com/#!/KatherineOwen01

Connect on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/KatherineOwenauthor

I'm on Tumblr, here: http://katherineowen.tumblr.com/

Hetaera--Suspense in Ancient Athens on sale for .99 cents till New Years Day

2011-12-13T10:10:00.000-08:00

I'm happy to announce that my new novel, Hetaera--Suspense in Ancient Athens is now available on Kindle, Barnes & Noble and Smashwords. I've dropped the price to .99 cents for the holidays--just through January 1, 2012. So, if you'd like a copy, this is a great time to snatch one.

Hetaera is Book One of the Agathon's Daughter trilogy. I began the book about eight years ago. Research includes an incredible trip to Greece. My friend and mentor, Elizabeth Engstrom traveled to Athens, explored the city, then hopped on a bus to Delphi where we met the self-proclaimed oracle. What a blast!

Temple of Athena, Delphi

I've always been interested in the role of women throughout history--especially in ancient times. My major in college was Classic Theater (with a focus on ancient Greece) and ancient religion. So this story began to develop long ago. I workshopped it in a class at the Maui Writers Retreat where I studied with Tess Gerritsen--a wonderful writer, teacher, and human being. That year the book went on to win third place in the Maui Writers Rupert Brooke Award.

Tess Gerritsen was kind enough to write a forword for the book.

This summer, after I suffered an accident at work, I finally had time to complete the book. In fact, the story grew into a trilogy. Book Two will be Priestess, Book Three, Oracle.

Truly, giving birth to this project has been an act of love. And it would not have been possible without the support of wonderful people like Liz, Tess, my friend Blake Crouch, and many other good friends.

Just .99 cents until January 1, 2012 on Amazon and Smashwords

Coming out in trade paperback soon!

Meet Indie Chick: Donna Fasano

2011-12-11T10:57:00.000-08:00

Please check out The Indie Chicks Anthology -- 25 personal stories from 25 indie writers. All proceeds benefit Breast Cancer Research.
This week, please welcome Indie Chick Donna Fasano to my blog. Stepping into the Light is an inspirational story about how she reinvented herself.

Donna wrote for Harlequin Books for 20 years before becoming a proud Independent Author. She's the written over 30 romance and women's fiction novels that have sold over 3.5 million copies worldwide. Her books have won awards and made best-seller lists. Below is the story she contributed to the anthology Indie Chicks: 25 Independent Women, 25 Inspiring Stories.

Stepping Into The Light

I sit in the back row, shoulders rounded, knees jumping, my left thumb rubbing a raw spot in the center of my right palm. The sad and lonely sufferings being expressed in the dank, dimly-lit basement are all too real and much too close for comfort. I glance at the door and contemplate escape, but it's too late. All eyes are upon me. I hesitate only a moment before standing on quaking legs, clearing my throat softly and confessing, "My name is Donna. I'm a writer. And I need to come out of the closet because it's dark in here."

Twenty years ago, had there been a group called Writers Anonymous, I would have attended faithfully, pouring out my heart at the weekly meetings. You see, for the couple of years that I spent writing my first novel, I told almost no one what I was doing. My husband knew; in fact, he's the reason I even attempted what felt like the insurmountable task of plotting out and finishing that first book. He's also the reason I ended up in this glorious, chaotic, roller-coaster life I've lived as an author; however, that's a story for another day. But when I first started scratching words on a yellow legal pad with a no. 2 pencil (there's nothing else that stirs my creativity more than the feel of graphite gliding against paper), I didn't tell a single family member or friend.

Why would I keep my dreams and aspirations such a tightly guarded secret?

I would hazard to guess the answer is the same reason anyone else hides things that could have life-altering potential: fear.

What if I failed? What if I had no talent? What if I didn't possess the perseverance to finish that first manuscript?

The mere thought of the snide remarks, tittering laughter and looks of skepticism and ridicule I might receive were enough to keep me silent. My imagination has always been strong, and I easily saw the scenes play out in my head.

So you think you're going to write a book, huh?

But you didn't go to college.

A romance novel? Really?

If you're going to try to write, why not write a real book? You know, like a mystery or a thriller; something someone is going to want to read.

My ability to conjure fantasy has always been a blessing and a bane. When reading a book or listening to someone tell a story or imagining repercussions of actions, visions will take shape in my head. Situations feel real, characters become corporal, while my stirred emotions brim and often overflow. Needless to say, Hallmark commercials make me cry. While powerful creativity is a great and necessary trait for a writer who is intent on concocting a compelling tale, it can become crippling if that writer is too focused on the opinions of others.

However, I also have to confess that keeping that first novel-writing dream all to myself charged me with a vibrant energy. I was excited to get my story down on paper. Seeing my plot unfold was absolutely thrilling! Creating my characters was fun. And the fact that no one knew about my clandestine efforts gave me a huge amount of freedom. No one told me I was doing it all wrong; no one suggested I could never reach my goal.

In defense of all the people I kept in the dark all those years ago, I have to admit that most of them were delighted and supportive when I finally divulged that my first manuscript had been purchased by a bona fide publisher. Oh, there was a scoffer or two, and I continue to meet them; you know the type, people who can't be happy for others or who feel another's success somehow diminishes his or her own self-worth, but I've learned to deal with those people (working with New York City editors forces a writer to grow a thick skin pretty quickly). I merely smile and think about the slew of books I've sold and the fan mail I've received from all over the world.

Those scoffers seem to have come out of the woodwork now that I've reinvented myself as an Indie Author. But venturing into this new arena couldn't have happened at a better point in my life. I'm confident in my ability to tell a good story. I'm more than satisfied with the career I've had, and have no trouble imagining even more success in the future. I saw tangible proof when two of my books made it onto Kindle's Top 100 List. I'm happy with who I've become as a writer and as a person. If my work receives less-than-flattering feedback from a reader, I might not like it, but I also realize it's not the end of the world; I've learned that I can't please all readers all the time. I love the creative freedom I have as an independent author. I can allow my muse to take me wherever it will. I'm terrifically grateful that there are readers out there who are willing to buy my novels. Every time I read a good review of one of my books I want to (and do!) kiss my husband for suggesting I take a stab at this profession (it's a habit that's been very good for my marriage).

So… what's my point? Well, don't let the negative opinions of others keep you from dreaming, for one thing. Most of the scary thoughts that run through your head will never happen, and the few that do materialize can be dealt with. You're stronger than you think. Don't allow fear to paralyze you. Aspire to be and do whatever it is you want to be and do. Be kind to yourself; you deserve the same compassion and concern that you offer others. And most importantly, know that your dreams matter. Indulge them. Reach for the stars! I did, and I'm still astounded that I snagged a few.

~ ~ ~

Donna loves to hear from readers! Ways to connect with Donna:

Her blog, Author Donna Fasano, In All Directions

On Facebook, Donna Fasano

On Twitter, DonnaFaz

A few of Donna's available titles:

The Merry-Go-Round in paperback or for your Kindle.

His Wife for a While for your Kindle.

An Accidental Family for your Kindle, for your Nook, or on Smashwords.

Look for other available titles on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Smashwords.

Read the First 2 Chapters of Hetaera--Coming out Next Week!

2011-12-10T07:43:00.000-08:00

Hetaera, part one of the Agathon's Daughter Trilogy will be published next week. Here's a sneak preview:

CHAPTER ONE

Wind swept down from the acropolis, driving dust along the narrow lanes past sleeping houses, slipping through bolted doors into the Master’s bedchamber. On this dismal night, even the House of Agathon offered no barrier against the winged god of death.

Hestia drew her shawl close around her shoulders, gazed across the chamber. The oil lamp sputtered, casting shadows on the ceiling, and darkness crept across the old man’s face.

“Come closer,” he called out, clutching at the bedcovers, struggling to lift his head. A rasping cough strangled his voice. He stared at her as if witnessing an apparition.

“Rest,” she said.

“I have wronged you.”

“Never.”

Hestia dipped a cloth into a bowl of water infused with thyme to stem the fever and mopped her Master’s brow. Since the onset of his illness, the furrows in Agathon’s forehead had grown more pronounced, and lines wrought by years of laughter sagged into a frown. The battle-worn face she loved so well, craggy as the hills of Athens, seemed possessed by a secret grief.

He regarded her with stark intensity. “If I should die this night—”

“Don’t speak of death.”

Groaning, he rolled onto his side. “Do you hear them howling?”

“Who?”

“The hounds of Hades. I hear the splash of Charon’s oars; the icy waters of the Styx lap at my feet.”

Despite the late hour, despite the impending rain, Hestia considered sending for the physician; the remedy Doctor Baraz had prescribed didn’t seem to be working. She moved quickly to the doorway, waking the injury she’d received as an infant. Pain shot through her ankle.

“Where are you going?”

“To get the Despoina.”

“Don’t wake my wife. Melaina needs her beauty sleep.” Agathon struggled to sit, his breath shallow and rapid.

In truth, Hestia felt relief. The prospect of waking the Despoina held all the charm of opening Pandora’s box—except no hope lay hidden at the bottom. Only wrath. Yet, the feverish glitter of Agathon’s eyes made her uneasy. She walked back to the bed and touched his forehead. Heat rushed through her fingers, the pulse of life escaping him.

“You’re burning up.”

“If only I could sleep.” Agathon closed his eyes, but he looked far from peaceful.

Hestia wiped her eyes, warding off her tears.

Melaina claimed it was disrespectful for a slave to show emotion. Slaves, Melaina said, were meant to blend into the furnishings, stay hidden in corners, like a chamber pot. Despite her effort to stop them, tears escaped her eyes. How could she prevent herself from crying for the one person in this world who had shown her kindness? The person who had saved her life.

Agathon’s eyelids fluttered open, and the soul she loved peered out. “Get some sleep,” he said.

“If I sleep who will care for you?”

“You’re a good girl, Hestia. A bit strong-willed, but intelligent.”

His words brought more tears.

“When the rains are over,” she said, attempting to compose herself. “And as soon as you regain your strength, we’ll visit the acropolis; make an offering at the Pantheon.”

“Pour me some wine.”

“Perhaps you need another dose of the physician’s medicine.”

“No more. It tastes bitter.”

“The Despoina opened an amphora of your favorite wine. I’ll add some honey to the wine and you won’t notice the medicine.”

“Don’t treat me like a woman—”

Hestia knew better than to argue.

Pain bit her ankle; it always did at this late hour. Favoring her left foot, she reached the sideboard. She poured wine from an earthen pitcher into a drinking cup then added water and a dollop of honey—the last of the supply she had gathered in the autumn. Soon it would be time to reopen the hives and discover if the bees had survived the winter—but now that Diodorus had returned from military service the bees would be his chore. Hestia admired Agathon’s son; Diodorus care about important things like the natural world, philosophy and mathematics. She glanced at Agathon to make certain he wasn’t watching before reaching for the vial of tincture. She dosed the wine liberally. Limping toward the bed, she offered him the cup.

“Your ankle pains you,” he said. She busied herself straightening the bedcovers. “Hestia, look at me.”

His face was blotchy, ravaged by fever. Though the physician insisted his illness wasn’t plague, the servants whispered otherwise. Day and night they lit fires and made offerings to the household gods, mumbling excuses why they couldn’t sit with him. Laundry needed to be done, bread had to be baked, spring cleaning was past due. Even the Master’s wife kept her distance. Hestia saw no lesions, no swollen glands, no sign of plague—yet Agathon’s condition worsened.

“Drink,” she said, “and you’ll feel better.”

“Stop fussing. Sit.”

She drew a goatskin stool close to the bed and sat, hands folded in her lap.

Agathon sipped the wine, made a sour face, then set the cup on the bedside table. He reached for her hand, small within his sturdy paw, and squeezed her fingers. “Remember the day we climbed the Hill of Nymphs?”

Not long ago, after another stormy night, she and Agathon had ventured out to wander through the sacred olive grove. Sunlight danced through rain-drenched leaves.

“I remember,” she said. “I asked you what Socrates says of love.”

“And I said you’re too young to ponder that subject.”

“Seventeen is hardly young, Master.”

“Time passes swiftly.” A frown tugged at Agathon’s mouth. He reached for the cup of wine, but didn’t drink. “According to Socrates, there are two varieties of love—the higher leads to harmony, the lower to destruction.”

“How can you tell the difference?”

“If you can answer that, my darling girl, you’re wiser than Socrates.” His eyes appeared troubled. “Can you find it in your heart to love an old warhorse like me?”

Hestia stared at her lap, unsure of what he wanted. Unsure of how to answer.

“My question upsets you.” He grabbed the cup of wine and drank. His eyes peered at her above the cup’s rim. “Give me your honest opinion—at this late hour of my life, can my soul be purified?”

“Your soul is pure. Your life has been exemplary—”

“No.”

She interlocked her fingers, observing their redness and how the knuckles blanched. Weighing her words, she said, “I believe all souls to be eternal. Therefore, the hour can never be too late for a soul’s redemption.”

“By the gods,” he said softly, “you’re a match for any man, any philosopher, even Socrates.”

“You flatter me.”

“I speak the truth. You take after your mother, golden curls, and eyes as blue as the Aegean.”

“My mother preferred me dead.”

“Who told you that?”

“The Despoina.”

“Melaina?” Agathon shook his head.

“Your wife says my mother chained me to a hill—left me, as an infant, to die of exposure.”

Agathon took a gulp of wine, his hand shaking. A cough took hold, deep and guttural. He tried to hand the cup to Hestia, but the wine spilled. A crimson stain crept across the bedcover—not only wine, but blood.

Hestia removed the cup from his trembling hand, her own shaking as well. Her eyes met Agathon’s and she gazed into his heart. The cup slipped from her hand, crashed on the tile floor, and shattered.

“You knew my mother, didn’t you?” Her gaze reached deeper, unlocking his secrets. “You loved her.”

“Yes.” He stared at her, stricken.

“Tell me,” she said.

“Tell you what?”

She released him from her gaze.

Bending to collect pieces of the broken cup, she sorted through disparate emotions—sorrow for her Master’s illness, anger at his reticence, loneliness. As she stood, she felt light-headed, as if she were falling into a dark well. Who would find her? Who would notice she had gone?

His voice came from far away, calling her into the present.

“I’ll get another cup,” she said.

She moved toward the sideboard, felt his eyes follow her. The amphora felt slick against her palms. Her back to him, she poured medicine into the wine, added a large spoon of honey. She wanted him to sleep, wanted him to close his eyes—so she couldn’t see into his heart.

She handed him the cup, and Agathon drank deeply, his face flushing as the medicine took its course.

He wiped his mouth, settled into his cushions.

“Her name was Olympia.”

“Olympia,” Hestia said, the name forming on her tongue, swelling like a wave and crashing in her gut.

“Give me that box.” Agathon pointed to the bedside table.

She handed him a bronze box inlaid with colored stones.

Agathon opened the lid, drew out a ring. Gold glittered in the lamplight, sending shivers through Hestia. He pressed the ring into her palm, and a flood of images followed, each vying for her attention: a man crowned by a diadem, a woman dressed in flowing robes. The man slipped the ring on the woman’s finger. The ring was worth more than a slave could hope to earn in a lifetime. Holding it between her thumb and forefinger, Hestia marveled at the workmanship. Twin serpents intertwined to form the symbol of eternity, ruby eyes flashing fire.

“Read the inscription.”

“To Olympia from Agathon,” Hestia read. And then a month, “Boedromion.”

“A golden day in autumn, a day sacred to Dionysius—the day of your conception.”

“How would you know?”

“Have you not guessed?”

She stared into his eyes, afraid to speak the truth she saw.

Agathon reached for her hand, but she recoiled, her thoughts and feelings churning. When she spoke, her voice came out as a whisper. “I am your—”

“Daughter.”

“And my mother?”

“Died giving birth to you. I was here, in Athens, when I received the news.” Agathon sank back into the cushions.

Hestia turned the ring in her palm, feeling the weight of the gold, the weight of Agathon’s words. Of course, she’d been abandoned, a bastard and a girl. Unwanted children were often left out in the elements to expire.

“Why did you save me?”

“I couldn’t bear to see you die. I sought you out, plucked you from your chains.”

“And kept me as your slave.”

“I couldn’t claim you as my own. Melaina wouldn’t...”

Her eyes met his. His face seemed to be melting, like a wax mask left out in the sun. His mouth moved, but his words were drowned in the roar of questions rushing through her mind. She wasn’t the first bastard to be born to a wealthy Master, not the first child to be unclaimed. It was a common story. But she had trusted Agathon. Gorge rose to her mouth, molten rage that stung her throat. She swallowed, forcing down her anger.

“Forgive me,” he said. “Forgive an old man.”

Blue veins lined his hands, carrying his blood. Her blood. The blood she had been denied.

“Who was she, my mother? A slave?”

“A goddess. She belonged to no man.” Agathon sighed heavily, closed his eyes.

Hestia studied his ravaged face and saw her own. She reached for his shoulder, shook him. “Olympia who? From where?”

He mumbled something.

The shutters clattered. The wind had ripped them open. She glanced at the high window. Clouds drifted over the moon, smothering its light.

She turned back to Agathon, knelt beside his bed. Tears streaming down her face, she pressed her cheek against his chest, listened for his heartbeat, and heard only the rattle of the shutters.

CHAPTER TWO

Dawn brought the wail of servants, but Melaina shed no tears for her dead husband.

After consuming a substantial meal of goat cheese and barley bread, she rinsed her hands in the washbasin and splashed her face. Leaning over the water, she pulled the corners of her eyes, tightening the fine, webbed lines. Thanks to a paste of lead and limestone, which she applied religiously, her hair remained jet-black. Despite her fading beauty men still found her appealing, and she expected Agathon’s wealth to enhance her attractiveness. According to the law she would inherit nothing. Even her dowry, still held in trust, would be controlled by her son. But Diodorus was an idealist. He had no mind for business, no desire to advance himself. He had proved himself as a soldier, serving as a hoplite in the Spartan uprising; but Agathon had ruined their son’s desire for practical pursuits, encouraging the boy (though he was twenty Melaina refused to call him a man) to follow Socrates—a half-crazed philosopher who wandered barefoot around the agora spouting gibberish. When Diodorus wasn’t spewing nonsense he spent his time studying insects, rocks and other worthless objects.

Melaina counted on her son’s disinterest in financial matters. With any luck, Diodorus would leave management of the property to Lycurgus, Agathon’s business partner who had been appointed Kurios, protector of the family. Diodorus needed guidance.

Melaina gave her face a final splash.

Now that Agathon was on the road to Hades, she vowed to put an end to her son’s foolish pursuits. She planned to push him into politics. But for now, it would be best to entice Diodorus out of Athens. Not forever, just for one year.

One year would give her time.

She clapped her hands, and a slave parted the curtains—a new girl, dark skinned with strange markings on her face, waves of dots across her forehead and cheeks, the result of scarification. No Athenian woman would mark her face in such a barbaric way. Melaina could not recall the girl’s name.

“Come here.”

The slave mumbled something in a foreign language.

“What did you say?”

“Nothing, Despoina.”

“Don’t stand there, gaping. Fetch my chiton, the black one.”

The girl looked at her blankly, as if she didn’t understand. Melaina pointed to her cedar chest, one of several that stood against the wall. The girl moved lethargically. With maddening sluggishness, she opened the chest’s lid and pulled out one carefully folded tunic after another. Melaina guessed the girl came from some backwater in Africa. One of Agathon’s strays. The house was full of untrained slaves that no one else would put up with.

Melaina sighed. “Do I need to find the chiton myself?”

“Is this what you want, Despoina?” The girl dragged a large rectangle of cloth from the chest and brought it to Melaina.

“Custom demands a widow’s clothes be drab, but black is not my color.” Melaina fingered the finely woven wool. “Makes my complexion appear sallow.”

“Yes, Despoina.”

“You don’t have to agree with me.”

“No, Despoina.”

Melaina rolled her eyes. Yes, no. Could the girl say nothing else? “What’s your name?”

“They call me, Calonice.”

“Calonice, a good Greek name.”

“My Igbo name is Adisa. It means one who sees clearly.”

“Fascinating. Be careful how you drape the cloth.” Sucking in her stomach, and holding out her arms, Melaina readied herself to be dressed. Unlike her last maid, who’d had years of practice—and had, inconveniently, died—this girl was obviously a novice. Standing on her toes, the girl attempted to drape the cloth.

“Not like that.” Melaina caught the wool at each shoulder so it could be pinned in place. “Don’t use those brooches. Fetch the others, the gold set with sapphires.”

The girl gazed at her, like a sheep.

“Blue stones.” Melaina nodded toward her jewelry box.

“The brooch the rich man gave to you?”

Melaina’s eyes shot to the slave. “Who told you that?”

“No one, Despoina.” The girl busied herself with the bronze box.

No one. There were no secrets in a house full of servants. “And fetch the matching earrings.”

Mumbling to herself the girl fastened the brooches at Melaina’s shoulders as Melaina slipped the heavy earrings through her earlobes. Intricately wrought and exquisitely designed, the brooch and earrings far exceeded any gift of Agathon’s.

The brooch jabbed her shoulder.

“Clumsy girl!”

“Forgive me, Despoina.”

Melaina slapped the slave. “Get out!”

The girl rubbed her cheek. If it were possible, her eyes grew darker. Muttering something that sounded like a curse, she left the room.

Relieved to see her go, Melaina rubbed her shoulder. She inspected the deep scratch where the heavy pin had gouged her and wondered if the wound had been intentional.

Feeling the beginning of a headache, she massaged her temples.

Soon Agathon’s sisters would arrive, interfering women twenty years her senior. Sometimes she felt so alone. She had no one to confide in, no one she could trust. Locked away, within her house, like all proper Athenian matrons—forbidden to go out, unless under a man’s protection, not even to the marketplace—she sometimes wondered if a slave’s life might offer more freedom.

There must be some escape.

She thought of Lycurgus. He’d chosen to remain single, not because he didn’t care for women—the gods knew that was not an issue—but for other reasons.

Using a length of silk cord, she girded the long tunic at her waist, allowing the excess fabric to form an overdress, the latest fashion. The chiton fell to the floor in graceful folds, showing her body to its best advantage. Of course, Lycurgus would attend Agathon’s funeral. In many ways he was the opposite of Agathon, brilliant with a dangerous reputation, a statesman with his choice of women. Melaina prayed he would find Agathon’s wealth an aphrodisiac.

Besides her dead husband’s money, what did she have to offer?

She reached for her bronze mirror. The handle had been cast in the form of Aphrodite, goddess of love. Such a fickle deity. Melaina squeezed the handle till it cut into her palm. These days, she preferred Athena, goddess of strategy. Or even better, Hecate, goddess of the moon and magic. She admired Hecate’s elusiveness.

Holding the polished bronze to her face, she pursed her lips, then parted them. Receding gums, but pumice mixed with vinegar kept her teeth passable. She smiled at her reflection. Agathon had been a popular member of the council, known for his philanthropy. His funeral would bring a throng and, naturally, all eyes would dwell on the bereft widow. But she had no intention of remaining a widow for long. She picked a bit of barley from between her teeth.

She glanced toward the window, a small square in the white plaster. A shade tree blocked the sun, but warm air crept through the open shutters. Already half the morning gone, and so much to do.

She opened another cedar chest and selected an indigo himation. The color negated the drabness of the black chiton and brought out the luster of her hair. She wrapped the shawl over her left shoulder, bringing the end around her back and across the front of her body, before draping the tail over her left arm.

Despite the expectations of society, she would ignore the custom of shearing her hair. The dark tresses, highlighted with henna, remained one of her best features. Solemn faced, as the occasion merited, she left her chamber and sedately descended the steps leading to the women’s courtyard. Agathon would have made do with a ladder, but she had insisted he build a stairway. He’d been tight about important things, while lavishing on foolish projects—housing for paupers, public assistance for invalids and indigents—a waste of money.

Of course, no one in Athens valued the opinion of a woman. Unless she was a courtesan. Melaina couldn’t understand how the opinions of hetaerae were respected while those of obedient wives were not. Sometimes, she wished she were a Spartan, though she’d never give voice to such a blasphemous idea. Spartan women were educated, almost as well as men. More importantly, they were permitted to own property, and, while their husbands were off fighting, the women controlled the purse strings. Here in Athens respectable women were close to prisoners.

Melaina walked through the colonnaded women’s courtyard, past the kitchen where slaves prepared a midday meal. The smell of lentils and onions, mingled with the scent of bread, wafted through the door, then drifted toward the courtyard’s open sky. She glanced at the kitchen’s adjoining bath, empty at this hour, and continued walking past the altar dedicated to Hestia, goddess of the hearth.

Anger caught her step, and she nearly tripped—ridiculous that a slave should share the name of a goddess, a name assigned by Agathon, of course. As soon as possible, Melaina swore she would change Hestia’s name to something more appropriate, Ptolemais, for example, a name which meant warlike and rude. Smirking at her jest, she entered the men’s courtyard.

An offering of myrrh smoldered on the altar of Zeus, the scent smoky and resinous. Melaina peeked into the andron, a room forbidden to proper women such as she, where men gathered for symposiums—discussions of politics and philosophy fueled by large quantities of wine. She thought she might find Diodorus lounging on one of the couches that lined the perimeter, but the room was empty. She wondered where her son might be. Often in the mornings he used the men’s courtyard as a gymnasium, but today there was no sign of him.

Two slaves, on their knees, worked their way along the colonnade, scrubbing the mosaic floor. Melaina approached them, and the men quickly stood, the youngest nearly knocking over a leather bucket of water.

“You missed that corner,” Melaina said.

The young slave, a boy of about fourteen, kept his gaze focused on the floor. The older glanced to where Melaina pointed and started toward it with the bucket.

“Wait,” Melaina said. “Have you seen my son?”

“The Master went out early, Despoina.”

Hearing the slave refer to Diodorus as Master threw Melaina off. “My son,” she said, taking a moment to recover, “the Master went out where?”

“I don’t know.”

“He wore a hat and boots,” the younger slave said.

“Boots?”

“Yes, Despoina.”

“Get back to work,” her tone sounded sharper than intended.

So, instead of offering her support, Diodorus had gone out, in boots, of all things—probably traipsing through the countryside, instead of honoring his mother.

Had a son ever been so selfish?

His place was here, with her. The guests would be arriving and she needed him.

Wringing her hands, Melaina wandered the perimeter of the courtyard. Sunlight played across the paving stones, and the walls offered protection from the wind. Now that Agathon was gone, she saw no reason why the courtyard couldn’t be put to better use than as a gymnasium and place for men to congregate. She imagined tearing up the slabs of stone to create a protected garden for her herbs.

But first she had to bury Agathon.

Doctor Baraz had been summoned in the middle of the night, waking Melaina from slumber. No wonder she felt a bit tired this morning; she hated having her sleep interrupted. The doctor had declared the cause of death was hemorrhage. Too late for bloodletting, Melaina thought, unless posthumous leeching might benefit Agathon in the afterlife. Like most Athenians, Melaina didn’t care for Persians on principle—after all, they’d nearly destroyed the city—but she had to admit they excelled as physicians. Doctor Baraz had taught her many things about remedies and herbs. Best of all, he refrained from asking too many questions.

Agathon’s corpse had been removed to a curtained antechamber adjacent to the entrance of the house. He rested on a bier, draped with a checkered cloth, his feet facing the door to allow his soul a swift departure. His head had been encircled with crimson anemones. According to legend, when Adonis—the mortal youth adored by Aphrodite—was slain by a wild boar, the bereft goddess sprinkled nectar on her lover’s lifeless body and windflowers sprang from his blood.

Melaina stared uneasily at the remains of her husband. The dead don’t speak, she assured herself. If Agathon had guessed her secret, it no longer mattered. She slipped a coin into his mouth, payment for Charon, and placed a coin on each eye. Securing a strip of linen under his chin, she tied it tight, so his jaw would remain shut.

The task of preparing the corpse fell to her. Agathon’s sisters would have helped, but Melaina couldn’t tolerate their meddling, their endless chatter. She preferred to work in solitude before they arrived. She washed the corpse with seawater, humming as she worked, her thoughts turned to a brighter future. Now that Agathon was gone she had full reign over the house, the storeroom and the wine cellar. As soon as custom allowed, she would speak to Diodorus, encourage him to hold a lavish symposium. Her heart quickened at the thought of her son entertaining the leading citizens of Athens. A nod from Pericles could ensure his future in politics. The idea of Pericles visiting her house, drinking at her table, set Melaina’s heart racing. She reminded herself that the house belonged to Diodorus, and women weren’t invited to symposiums. Not respectable women.

She gave Agathon’s leg a final swipe with a damp cloth. Servants would dress him in funeral robes and crown him with a gold diadem. But first she must anoint his body to ensure that his soul departed.

Collecting her basket, she walked through the recessed entryway where slaves were sweeping the mosaic floor and hanging wreaths of myrtle over the lintels. Athena peered down from the frescoed ceiling: independent, strong, sprung full-grown from the head of Zeus, a battle-cry upon her lips. Melaina reminded herself to offer a substantial sacrifice to Athena—a goddess worthy of devotion—in honor of her husband’s death, and as insurance for her own future.

“Good morning, Despoina.”

She nodded at Therapon, an old fool of a slave.

He lifted the front door’s iron bolt, his arms quivering, as if the bolt’s weight were too much for him. Melaina breathed in the crisp air of early spring. She descended the steps that led to the narrow street, busy at this hour with workmen pushing carts and pedestrians on their way to the agora. Turning away from the street, she walked to the back of the house.

Agathon’s dogs, whining for their Master, waited by the stables. Not sleek hounds a person might take pride in, but strays and mongrels like the rest of Agathon’s household. Beyond the stable the terrain became arid hills and scrub. Kicking away the dogs, Melaina entered her garden. Not a patch of kitchen herbs like the one maintained in the courtyard, not a plot of vegetables useful for cooking, but a deciare measuring ten by ten meters, and brimming with medicinal herbs and flowers. The sun peeked over the terracotta rooftop, warming her back, burning off the morning dew, and releasing the pungent scent of rosemary. With satisfaction, Melaina regarded the array of plants she’d coaxed from the rocky soil. Although her garden wouldn’t reach its full glory for a month or two, last night’s downpour had done her plants a lot of good. She checked the rain barrels, glad to note the replenished supply of water.

Using a finely honed knife, she cut fragrant sprigs of thyme for purification, lavender for protection. Herbs used in ritual had to be treated with deference. She knelt beside a bushy row of yellow flowers and set her basket on the paving stones. Artemisia, named for the goddess of the moon, would allow Agathon’s soul safe passage to the underworld. She cut handfuls of the yellow blooms and set them in her basket.

Groaning as she stood, these days her bones ached in the mornings.

Ignoring the keening dogs, she re-entered the house.

Her son’s house, not Agathon’s.

She removed her muddy sandals, handed them to Therapon, and padded across the entryway’s mosaic—an intricate design of red, yellow, blue, and white stones, depicting an array of sea creatures—one of the finest in Athens. Her heart swelled with pride. Diodorus was now Master of the House of Agathon. His fortune, and hers, shone brighter than a comet.

Spots danced before Melaina’s eyes as she slipped through the curtains and stepped into the annex. Compared to the courtyard, the workroom seemed dark. She considered calling a slave to bring an oil lamp, but decided against it. She preferred no interference. No well-meant mumblings of condolence, no reflections on the swiftness of her husband’s death.

No unwanted observations.

Setting her basket on a table, she glanced at her husband’s corpse. His eyes flashed and her heart jumped. Pressing a hand against her chest, she told herself it was nothing, just the play of light on the coins.

Again, she wondered if he’d guessed her secret.

Using a pestle, she mashed the greenish-yellow artemisia flowers against the mortar’s rough stone, releasing their unpleasant odor. But the smell didn’t bother her.

Herbs were reliable, unlike people. People could be unpredictable.

She thought of Hestia. Thanks to Agathon, the girl didn’t know her place.

Melaina dipped her finger into the flower paste and brought it to her lips. She recoiled at its bitterness, recoiled at the memory of her marriage. She had come to Agathon at age fourteen—the usual age. He was twenty years her senior, a hero returned from the wars. She’d known nothing of the world and even less of men. She had tried to be a good wife, tried to please him. She ran an efficient household, kept the larders well stocked. But they’d had little in common. More often than not, he found reason to travel far from home. Like Jason had done to Medea, Agathon had strayed, leaving Melaina for another woman. But what recourse did she have? A woman’s word held little weight against a man’s.

Small wonder she had come to rely on another. At first, Lycurgus had sent messengers, offering in Agathon’s absence to be of service regarding financial matters. Initially, Melaina refused his help. But Agathon’s departures grew more frequent, and the bills kept mounting. Weeks turned into months. Meanwhile, Lycurgus remained persistent—and delightfully charming. Though a woman of her stature was forbidden male visitors, it was deemed acceptable for her to meet with her Kurios. A woman could engage in no transactions involving property valued over a week’s supply of barley. Someone had to pay the bills, see to business in her husband’s absence.

Naturally, she’d come to rely on Lycurgus. And, like a Spartan wife, unable to conceive with her own husband, she’d bedded her husband’s closest friend.

Having been away for six months, Agathon returned to find Melaina four months gone with child. Of course, she’d claimed the child was his, padding her belly to appear further along and avoiding his caresses. Agathon never questioned his paternity. Diodorus arrived two months later than expected, and Melaina paid the midwife well to claim his birth an anomaly.

She might have spared herself the trouble, spared herself the expense of bribery, because Agathon hardly noticed her. He spent his time lost in ideas, constantly scribbling and reading or giving money to the poor. Yet, sometimes she sensed he’d guessed the truth. Sometimes she caught him staring at the boy—wondering, perhaps, at his sculpted nose and high forehead, so different than his own. But if Agathon suspected the child wasn’t his, he remained silent. After all, Melaina had produced the mandatory heir, leaving her husband free to roam. And roam he did. After the boy’s birth, claiming to have business in the north, Agathon embarked on yet another extended journey.

Melaina crushed more artemisia with her pestle, pounding the fern-like leaves into a pulp, mashing the yellow flowers, as she thought about her marriage.

After a year of absence Agathon returned—not alone, but bearing an infant in swaddling. His whore’s. He’d pleaded with Melaina, begged her to raise the baby as her own, but she’d refused. A mistake, in retrospect. Agathon hired a wet nurse who stood guard over the infant day and night, leaving no opportunity to send the evil Ker to her death.

Melaina pushed away the memories, focused on her work. With quiet concentration, she added the flower paste to an earthen pot of wine that simmered on the brazier. Taken as a tonic, artemisia acted as a narcotic, inducing sleep. Used to anoint a corpse, the elixir ensured the slumber of the deceased would be eternal; it had the same effect on those still living. As she stirred the brew with a wooden spoon, the vision of her son’s future grew vivid—a golden path leading to the acropolis. She would walk beside him.

With help, all her dreams were possible. And that help would come from Lycurgus.

For twenty years, she had held their secret. For twenty years, she’d played the martyr, putting up with the bastard daughter—a constant reminder of Agathon’s infidelity; and her own.

But that would change.

She bent over the brazier and blew on the embers, inhaling the artemisia’s intoxicating fumes. Sweat beaded on her forehead, ran into her eyes, and stung. Feeling faint, she removed the concoction from the brazier. Steadying her knees, she searched through her basket and found a stick of rosemary. She held it to the glowing coals. The smoke would dispel evil spirits—dispel Hestia, the Pandora who wreaked havoc on the house.

Mumbling a prayer to Hecate, Melaina ran the smoldering rosemary over her husband’s corpse. She studied the nose broken in battle, the rough-hewn mouth that seldom spoke to her.

From a funerary flask, she poured olive oil into an alabaster bowl, then added the artemisia. She dipped a scrap of linen into the oil and ran the cloth over the soles of Agathon’s feet, circling to the left to release him from this world.

“Go quickly,” she said.

The doorway’s curtain swayed.

“Who’s there?” Cloth in hand, Melaina ripped open the curtain.

Hestia hobbled away, as fast as her lame foot allowed.

Melaina hurried after her. “I told you to scrub the kitchen hearth. If you’ve finished, the chamber pots need emptying. Remember, I’m your Master now.”

Hestia turned to face Melaina, her expression defiant.

“Your son is Master of this house.”

Melaina’s hand came down on Hestia’s face, leaving a red mark. She hadn’t meant to strike, hadn’t meant to lose herself. She’d meant to exhibit self-control, but the girl was impertinent. Hestia should be falling to her knees, begging forgiveness. Instead, she stood her ground, her eyes—bluer than a bruise—penetrating, invasive.

Melaina stepped back from the girl, aware of servants watching, listening. Summoning her most commanding voice, she said, “I’m sorry I slapped you, but you drove me to it.”

The girl rubbed her swelling cheek. “I drove you to hit me? I didn’t know I had such power.”

Melaina raised her hand again. “I’m warning you. Today I have no patience.”

“When do you ever have patience?”

Melaina’s hand shook as she lowered it. Her eyes remained fixed on Hestia. She found it impossible to look away. The girl was a sorceress, just like her whorish mother. “Now that Agathon is dead, you answer to me,” she said. “Blood follows blood, and you take after your mother. But you must change.”

“According to the Master, my mother was a goddess.”

Melaina’s throat tightened, her breath catching in her chest. She grabbed Hestia’s wrists, locking her fingers around the delicate bones. She dragged the girl into the curtained annex, pointed at the corpse. “He won’t protect you now.”

Melaina stood, triumphant, watching with satisfaction as Hestia’s stance grew limp.

Reaching out her hand, the girl stroked the dead man’s face.

“Don’t touch him,” Melaina said.

Hestia bent her head in supplication, tears gleaming in her eyes.

The display of grief annoyed Melaina. “You will leave this house after my husband’s funeral.”

“My father’s funeral.”

“What did you say?”

The girl’s probing eyes met Melaina’s.

Heat drained from Melaina’s body, replaced by icy clarity. Hestia knew. Agathon had told her. “You have no proof.”

Hestia turned to leave.

Melaina followed her. “What proof do you have?”

Before the girl reached the doorway’s curtain Melaina caught her by the arm. Tripping over her weak foot, Hestia stumbled. A small object fell from the folds of her chiton, rolled across the tile, circled once, and came to rest with a clinking sound.

Melaina tried to snatch the gleam of gold, but Hestia reached it first.

A ring of intertwining snakes glinted on her finger.

Sickness gurgled in Melaina’s stomach. “Where did you get that ring?”

“It belonged to my mother.”

“Give it to me.”

“This ring is proof of my bloodline. My father gave it to me.” Hestia’s eyes, disturbingly placid, like the sea before a storm, gazed into Melaina’s.

Melaina licked her lips, noticing that they felt parched. Confronted with the girl’s vibrant youth, she felt her body shriveling. With annoyance, she noticed Hestia’s slender form beneath the folds of her robe. Despite her defect, men would find her attractive. She’d bring a good price at market.

“Give it to me.” Melaina reached for Hestia’s hand. Her fingers brushed the ring, and sparks flew from the gold. A jolt of heat rushed through her body, and she cried out, “It burns!”

Hestia watched, calmly. “The ring belongs to me,” she said.

“That ring proves nothing except that you’re a thief.” Melaina sucked her scorched fingers. “If I claim you stole it, you will be stoned to death. But that would be a waste. Rather than see you dead, I prefer to sell you to the highest bidder.”

Hestia’s eyes darkened to a blue as deep as lapis. Like whirlpools, they sucked Melaina in.

“Sorceress!”

She grabbed Hestia’s hair—annoyingly yellow—and yanked the girl against her chest. Hestia tried to scream, but Melaina clapped the cloth soaked in artemisia over the girl’s nose and mouth. With patience born of suffering, she waited for Hestia’s knees to buckle, for her body to grow limp, for the accusing eyes to close.

Are you single this holiday season? Check out Mary Edwards' Guest Post

2011-12-08T20:36:00.000-08:00

This guest post from dating expert Mary Edwards is bound to make you smile.

10 Perks To Being Single During The Holidays

Despite what your Grinch-like married sister tells you, spending the holidays alone isn’t all that bad. Here are a few good reasons this season to sip eggnog solo:

1. Don’t have to shave your legs.

It’s a woman’s best magic trick. You shave and step out of the shower into the artic chill and supernaturally the hair instantly reappears. Well good news, that pesky task we all dread is no longer needed.

2. Party Hop.

The party scene is your oyster, your time to shine. Company holiday party lacking the eye candy needed to get you through the evening? Easy, just say next. Party hop from one lame party to the next, plus you can wear the same outfit and no one is the wiser.

3. Money Saver.

Simple math equation: The cost of two football tickets for him is equivalent to one spa treatment at a high end salon and a pair of the must have designer boots for you. Which has greater value?

4. Movie Control.

Home Alone 3 wasn’t that bad was it? Does it matter? You have full control of the remote. This applies to music as well, so continue to blast Wham’s “Last Christmas” without shame.

5. No in laws.

The number one holiday fight: Where to spend the holidays. With your parents who are convinced you will never give them grandchildren or with his back handed comment making mom? Easy choice this year, neither.

6. Christmas Decorations.

Time to take out the cheesy snowman and the glittering tree, the only one suffering from your over the top decorations is your cat who is sitting in the corner of your one bedroom wishing he wasn’t wearing a blinking elf hat.

7. Food Consumption.

This is the time to stuff your face. Have not one, two but three cookies, heck, have the whole batch. Who’s counting?

8. Mistletoe.

Now ladies this is your best friend. Place yourself under the mistletoe, pucker up and make sure that breath is minty fresh. Play it right and you may be getting more than a pair of socks for Christmas.

9. Holiday ‘Spirits’.

Get in the holiday spirit with eggnog or gram’s spiked cider. Bottoms up! More is always the merrier and make sure you safely cab it home.

10. Fewer Dishes.

A table for one means less time in the kitchen. Feel free to eat from the severing bowl and burn a dinner roll or two. No judgment here.

Be glad you are avoiding that awkward gift exchange and snuggle up next to a warm fire with a box of holiday cookies. Finally, a singles holiday that has never felt so good.

Mary Edwards is one of the contributors and editors for dating sites. She is passionate about thought leadership writing, regularly contributes to various career, social media, public relations, branding, and parenting and online dating community. She can be reached at edwardsmary936 AT gmail.com.

Indie Chick, Linda Welch -- Never Too Late

2011-12-05T18:18:00.000-08:00

Please welcome Indie Chick, Linda Welch to my blog. Linda says"

When I published the first two Whisperings paranormal mystery novels, I created an icon to use on Facebook and Twitter. The picture is of Whisperings lead character, Tiff Banks. It seemed a good way to advertise my product at the time. But no matter how often I say she is not me, I am not a tall, slim, blond young woman, many obviously don’t believe me. Response to the avatar has amused me over the years. You wouldn’t believe the comments, compliments, and odd comments I think were meant as compliments. Many of them were a hoot. I knew I’d eventually have to come out of the identity closet and say, hey, look here, this is me, not the long-haired cutie.

Then Cheryl Shireman asked me to contribute to the Indie Chicks anthology and also asked for a photo. This is the perfect opportunity to set the record straight. If you want to know who Linda Welch really is, read on. . .

NEVER TOO LATE

I’m going to tell you something I don’t think you know.

I haven’t been a “chick” for many a year. I’m a couple of months shy of 61. I have been married to the same man for 39 years. We have two sons and four grandchildren. And you thought I was a tall, slim young thing, didn’t you. I am what is called a late bloomer and I’m writing this for other old biddies who had a dream and let it pass them by, or think they are too busy, or it’s too late to fulfill their dream. I don’t mean just writing, but any dreamed-of achievement you hide in your heart.

I was born in a country cottage in England. My father was a restless man, so we often moved and never had much money. I remember days when only Dad had meat on his plate at dinner, but we never went hungry. We had vegetables and fruit from the garden, eggs from the chickens. Times were hard, but we children never knew that. We were loved. When Mum and Dad met during World War II, Mum was a privately educated “well-bred” lady. I doubt I will ever meet anyone as smart as my mother. At 88 years, she is still as sharp as a tack. Dad was a countryman to the bone. He had many artistic talents he didn’t pursue until later in life. When he did, he excelled at them. I like to think some of their intelligence and talent rubbed off on me.

So much has changed, in my life, in the world. I hold memories of my childhood close. I won’t let them fade. One day, I will write about them.

I had a good basic education, first at a village school, then an all-girls school, but I left at 15 (at that time the legal age in England) and worked first as a telephone operator before I went into office occupations. I did not see authorship in my future.

But I have always daydreamed. Often, I recreated the same daydream multiple times, constantly elaborating. I did not realize I wrote books in my head.

I began writing words on paper in my mid-forties, but it was a hobby. Somewhere along the way, I thought, Could I publish this? and then I’d like to publish. But I talked myself out of it. Authors were young men and women who decided they wanted to write at a young age and worked to improve their skill their entire life. They went to college and university, they had degrees in writing, creative writing or journalism. I was inexperienced; I didn’t have their dedication or education. Anyway, I had a husband to support, children to raise and part-time jobs to supplement the family income. I didn’t have time to write and send queries, synopsis or sample chapters to agents.

In 2008 I discovered the Lulu publishing platform and took the plunge. I published the space opera Mindbender and science fiction Galen’s Gate. I subsequently unpublished them, with every intention of revising and republishing. Some copies are still floating around out there somewhere. However, Tiff Banks, who had been swimming around in this murky thing I call a brain for several years, chose to come out and play. She took over my life. She became my second skin.

When I think back to why I did not publish until in my fifties, I realize it had nothing to do with inexperience or lack of education. I was not ready. I had to marry a dashing young American airman, leave my homeland, raise two sons, spoil four grandchildren, live and work with Americans and become entrenched in the way of life. I was not ready to write Along Came a Demon until I came to the mountains of Utah, stood looking over my mountain valley, and knew, “this is it. This is where Tiff lives. She knows the bitter cold and snow of winter, the harsh heat of summer. She knows her city and the people inside-out. This is Tiff’s world, and now, I know who she is.”

Then the hard work began. My education was strictly “King’s English.” I wrote formal letters, contracts and legal documents at work. I had to take the starch out of my writing. Research didn’t help. It seemed that each time I read an article or blog about word usage, in particular overuse and what to avoid, the next book I read was a best-selling novel by a best-selling author who broke those rules. And having decided to barge into my life, Tiff was very positive about how she talks. She’s a born and bred American, a slightly snarky, slang-wielding gal who speaks to the reader on a personal level, individual to individual. I had to use a style that practically screamed “you can’t do that!” in my ear every other sentence.

I published the first Whisperings novel for another reason: Nobody seemed to believe in my writing. Not friends, relatives, friendly acquaintances. I think they supposed a 58-year-old with no education in the literary field, who suddenly came out of the woodwork and decided to publish, must be a “vanity publisher” who wanted to force poorly-written books on readers. When I said I wrote fiction, I got blank looks, followed by, “that’s nice. Now, as I was saying. . .” Nobody wanted to read my work, not even my sweet husband. But he enjoyed urban fantasy and I thought he’d like Tiff Banks. So in a way, I also published for him.

I published Along Came a Demon in November 2008. It was supposed to be a stand-alone novella, but readers wanted more and Tiff obliged. Along Came a Demon became book one of the Whisperings series of paranormal mysteries. I published the sequel, The Demon Hunters, in November 2009. In 2010 I added material to Along Came a Demon to make it a full-length book and at the same time made small changes to The Demon Hunters to reflect those in Along Came a Demon. I published book three, Dead Demon Walking, in March 2011. Being a wordsmith, I should be able to express my joy each time a reader tells me they love my books, but it truly is beyond my powers of description. Now, when someone asks me what I do for a living, instead of telling them I am a part-time administrative assistant and adding (hesitantly) “I also write fiction,” I say I am an author. When I fill out a form that asks for my occupation, I proudly write “author” in the little box.

Mary Wesley published Jumping the Queue at age 70 and went on to write ten best sellers until she died twenty years later.

Harriett Doerr was 74 when she published The Stones of Ibarra.

Laura Ingalls Wilder published her Little House on the Prairie series when she was in her 50s.

Mary Lawson was 55 when Crow Lake was published.

Flora Thompson is famous for her semi-autobiography Lark Rise to Candleford, published when she was 63.

Age is irrelevant. You are never too old. For anything.

This is one story from Indie Chicks: 25 Women 25 Personal Stories available on Amazon and Barnes & Noble. To read all of the stories, buy your copy today.
Also included are sneak peeks into 25 novels!
My novel, Along Came a Demon, book one of the Whisperings paranormal mystery series, is one of the novels featured.
All proceeds go to Susan G. Komen for the Cure.

Linda on Amazon USA for Kindle and paperback.

Linda on Amazon UK

Linda on Barnes and Noble

Linda's Website

Linda on Smashwords

Whisperings on Facebook

Whispering books are also available in e-book formats from Apple, Diesel, Kobo and Sony.

Waiting in DIA -- flying standby to New York

2011-11-29T08:18:00.000-08:00

Hooray! After my travel haitus (due to the foot injury), I'm back to flying. Traveling space-available as an airline employee can be a challenge--especially during the holidays. Right now I'm sitting in the Denver airport, hoping to get on either a United or a Frontier flight. One departs at 10:40am, the other at 10:45am, and they're in different concourses. Actually neither airplane really has seats so someone will have to miss the flight for me to get on. It's a juggling act, but the Thanksgiving crowds begin to thin this afternoon so I should get out sometime today. Left my house at 5am and will probably get to New York sometime tonight.

It's always an adventure! Wish me luck!

Here's a photo of DIA from the outside. The tent design mirrors the Rocky Mountains.

DIA

DIA at sunset

And here's where I'm trying to go: