Randomness about Random Things

We still have open topics going on here and I'm not sure what to blog about today, so I'm just going to wing it!

I normally hop around from working on one book to another. This year, I set out to focus on only one book in order to get it ready for publication. My original goal was to have it edited and start submitting by my birthday in May.

That didn't happen.

I set a new goal to have it ready by the 4th of July.

That didn't happen either.

Edit. Edit. Edit. I decided to give myself some more time and set a goal for September 1.

Once again, didn't happen.

However, in October during MuseCon, I pitched the novel to an agent and a publisher. Both made request for partials. I was extactic! First time ever in my life pitching anything and had TWO requests. Now, I new that it wasn't an acceptance but still, I was highly pleased to say the least.

That spurred me to finish the 'final' edits and I thought I had them done by the end of October. But, when I got the first rejection, I knew more work had to be done. Good for me, it was not a form rejection and I recieved feedback and suggetions for improvement.

So, I set out to make these changes while writing the sequal for NaNoWriMo in November. I realized half way through that the beginning of book 2 (about 6 chapters worth) really could be at the end of book 1. It would make for a stronger ending.

SO - now my book is practically back where it was at the beginning of this year. Since focusing on one novel didn't yield the results I wanted (and frankly drove me to near insanity), I decided to return to my normal habit of hopping from one WIP to another whenever it suits me.

I pulled out the notebook for my other series, blew the dust off of it, and got to work. Suddenly, the words flowed easily! The edits didn't make me cross eyed and I no longer felt like pulling all my hair out! I wish I would have decided to return to my old ways sooner, but I was determined.

I gave the new way a fair shot and plenty of time to see if it would really work for me or not. So I don't feel like I completely failed this year. I learned more about myself and my writing style. I know what really works for me know. Instead of my style being something I just did for the sake of it, I now know that it really is the best way for me to do things.

I'll set a new goal for next year based on my style and see what happens. I will say I feel much better than I have in months!

What about you? Have you tried a new method or style or technique that just isn't working? Have you tried something new that did work?

The Top Shelf

Were you expecting Long Island Iced Teas? Sadly, so was I.

     Our prompt this week was to answer the following question: “Who are the great authors writing today?” Thankfully, there was a second prompt. 

     What I mean by this is the fact that I don’t necessarily feel as if I read enough to be able to answer that kind of question. When I was a teenager I used to read all of the time. Even in the early years of my marriage, when the plant used to shut down for a week here or there during the slow season, I was able to lie around the apartment, reading to my heart’s content. Eventually, as life became more hectic, I was only able to read my favorite authors' new releases. Now, I am attempting to read more, but it is a discipline that I am having to master. If I had the time I would read so much more.

     Our secondary prompt was: “Who are your favorite authors writing today?”

     Now we’re talking…

[caption id="attachment_3245" align="alignleft" width="300" caption="A view of one shelf"][/caption]

As I mentioned there was a time when I was only able to follow my favorites. Over the years that list has included: Stephen King, the late Michael Crichton, Patricia Cornwell, Michael Slade, Clive Barker and Pat Conroy. 

     Citing Stephen King as a favorite author is like rock bands citing The Beatles or Led Zeppelin as influences, but in my case it is still a fact. I must say that I do not read everything that Uncle Stevie puts out. As prolific and as varied as he is, I tend to examine each novel and see whether it strikes my fancy before putting it into my cart or e-cart. I love when people tell me that they refuse to read his work because it is too creepy, frightening, etc. Of course, that’s when I ask them whether they liked The Shawshank Redemption, Stand By Me or The Green Mile. When they answer that they loved those films, that is when I rock their world.

     My favorites in the cannon that is Mr. King would be The Stand, Pet Sematary, Misery, The Dark Half, Gerald’s Game, Bag of Bones and The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon. The latter is a particular favorite of mine, and not because of the baseball references. I like it because of the young girl's strength and determination as she deals with finding herself lost in the deep woods.

     Michael Crichton was brilliant at filling his fiction with so much science that by the time he was done, none would question whether it might be possible for dinosaurs to roam the earth. Some might suggest that it was too much, but I think it gave his work so much believability. I thought Congo and Sphere were good books, but the terrible films really put a bad taste in my mouth. Uncle Stevie's fans can say the same about some of his as well. I was fairly dedicated between those two and Airframe, although it and Disclosure were very similar. I did not read again until Prey and State of Fear.

[caption id="attachment_3246" align="aligncenter" width="300" caption="Some Slade for your day."][/caption]

Patricia Cornwell hooked me with her Doctor Kay Scarpetta Series. My wife and I have followed religiously since Postmortem. We have followed her, FBI Profiler Benton Wesley, Detective Pete Marino and Scarpetta's niece Lucy, through the highs and lows of their lives as well as the peaks and valleys that is Ms. Cornwell’s creativity. There have been some great ones, a couple of lackluster ones, but for the most part she keeps us coming back for more.

     Which brings us to Michael Slade. I did a guest post on this subject just recently (http://wickedwriters.com/2010/06/16/special-x-thrillers/), so I will not bore the Wicked Readers with a rehash; however, I will say that he should be given a chance, especially if one likes their horror on the cutting edge. Why he remains largely undiscovered after all of these years, I still cannot figure out. Those of us who do know Slade enthusiastically consider ourselves “Sladists”.

     “Everybody is a book of blood; wherever we’re opened, we’re red.” So began my interest in Clive Barker. You may recall Pinhead from the Hellraiser series of films. That’s him. I started with his collection of shorts, Books of Blood. Eventually I followed him along from The Damnation Game, The Great and Secret Show, Imajica, Everville and The Thief of Always. I highly recommend that last one. It is a fable and suitable for children. I read that one to my two boys while they were growing up.

     Lastly, I will leave you with Pat Conroy. Writers of every flavor very often like to show off their mastery of the English Language. As a reader, we can easily find ourselves tripping up and losing interest in the characters, plot and ultimately in the book itself. Pat Conroy is not one of those. His prose simply must be some of the most beautiful ever published; reading his sentences just has to be like fine dining at it's finest. I have an image in my head of a non-wine drinker, tasting the bouquet that are his sentences and falling in love immediately with the vintage.

     This past year I did a book review over on my blog on Mr. Conroy’s latest release, South of Broad (http://jamesgarciajr.blogspot.com/2010/05/sunday-morning-musings_15.html). In it, I answered the following: “How did a horror enthusiast end up reading Pat Conroy?” I explained that a sister-in-law highly recommended what I would call his masterpiece, Beach Music. I had proclaimed that I never read anything unless someone died in the first chapter. As it turned out, the first page recounted the story of how Shyla McCall leapt from the Silas Pearlman Bridge in Charleston, South Carolina, setting off an amazing and unforgettable chain of events. Encompassing many years, multiple characters and almost too many subplots to count, it is simply the finest piece of fiction that I have ever had the pleasure of reading. I have read it many times and sometimes pick it up not necessarily intending to finish. I’ll grab it off of my bookshelf as if the intent is to give myself a delightful snack. It’s that good. How he tied every loose end into perfect and beautiful little bows, I’ll never know, and could only hope to be able to emulate.

     It is so good that I refused to read any of his other works, fearing that they would be such a colossal let down. In the end, I finally buckled and have read a few more, though I have yet to work my way through his bibliography. I have also read The Prince of Tides, and Conroy’s memoir, My Losing Season. I have not been disappointed as of yet. He is a fantastic writer.

     We read different things and we read them for different reasons. This was not an exhaustive list, but a list. What might be on your list? What might you recommend? I'd love to hear what others think. Hopefully, you can leave me with something new to discover as I hope I have left you.

[caption id="attachment_3247" align="alignright" width="300" caption="Thorn Birds? How the hell did that get there?"][/caption]

I would like to thank Julie Musil for commenting two weeks ago during our contest then about being interested in reading my e-book, Dance on Fire. You, my dear, are getting that chance. Thank you for participating. I hope you enjoy it.

The Mandarin Segment...

Something completely different?

OK, so, out of all the elements that make up a good story – which would I tell a novice they should take the time to study up on? You’re asking me? Really?

English usage? Strike one – C.J. gone done that one – fair‘n’square…

Plausibility, or, if your name is Greg: Keeping it real… damn it, Greg! Strike two!

No, please… Sharon, must you? Strike three… Out? Failed on account of characters?

But, in (my) reality all of the above and more ARE required. Now that really IS a problem for the novice writer.  So let me cast my mind back to when I had a story idea for a novel. What pragmatic advice would have helped me with the daunting task ahead of me? In fact, what was the first thing I wanted to find out about that ACTUALLY got me through the process of getting the idea down on paper?

Well, if you will bear with me – perhaps even read a little “flash” of inspiration… then maybe, just maybe, I’ll tell you…

The Mandarin Segment...

“Bye, honey,” she said “...don’t forget to eat something. It’s breakfast time! There’s a bowl of fruit on the table.”

With that his wife disappeared from view, on her way to the beach – his young son skipping gaily in-hand.

The writer sat at the small desk of the hotel they had checked into early that morning. It was the start of his holiday, but he had made a commitment. This last project, then he would relax. He had promised. He’d promised himself, promised his wife and child. He was an honourable man; promises were that: responsibilities to be met.

Sweat poured from his brow as the heat of the rising tropic sun screamed in through the open window. The gentle sea-breeze offered no respite. The effects of a sleepless early morning flight crowded his thoughts. Inspiration, that ghost of fancy, slipped from his grasp – that drowning muse parted his metaphoric grip as he, the sole survivor in his boat of life, looked helplessly, listlessly on.

Where to start?  It was his first novel... the commitment made to himself...  an outline of the story! A plan! Yes, damn it, he’d already qualified himself as a writer – but this was different... a novel? Eighty thousand words, he told himself... over three hundred pages. The thought scared him. Where to start?

He stood; he sat; he fidgeted.

The mid-day sun rose to its zenith... then fell.

Hunger avoided him as a plague.

The disappearance of his muse had long ceased to be that faded ripple on the outgoing tide of his consciousness. Oh yes! ...he still had the idea ...that glimmer of story hope that teased him into continuing his purgatory existence. But ...eighty thousand words?

The deadline, the end of this day, loomed ominously. Soon, they would return: promises to fulfil.

He paced the room. Desperation rose as a geyser from the bottom of his soul. Bile kissed the back of his throat. Panic began to consume him.

His eyes, heavy in desperation, rolled downward. His glance set upon the bowl of fruit. Atop the bananas, apples and grapes stood a single mandarin. The small orange fruit melded with the colour of the now setting sun. The mandarin became one with nature, growing in stature as his vision occluded all else before him.

He stood, mesmerised by the immense vision of the mandarin that became the world before him.

He stooped forward. Reaching down with his left hand he picked the fruit from the bowl, surprised at its lightness, given the sense that it seemed, at that moment, to hold the source of all energy. The fruit became all.

Involuntarily, his right hand met his left, trapping the soft fruit between them. It radiated inspiration. It controlled his movements. He knew not why his thumb pierced the orange skin at that precise time. He knew not why the skin fell cleanly away as, caressed by his touch, the fruit rotated against the sharpness of his nail. He knew none of these things. He knew only that he now held the mandarin, its fleshy nakedness exposed. Its pithy segmentation beckoned him.

The fruit was whole, it invited him to enter... to consume, not be consumed, but where? Where to begin?

And then he knew. ...A plan!

He smiled. He would break his story into segments. Each segment would begin as almost uniform, manageable scenes. Pithy links would bring the segments together, to realise the whole – an arc of enlightenment; from beginning to end.

He slid his finger into the mandarin... and breathed life, wishing he’d been hungrier, earlier.

****

And my point?

Pace.

The challenge, should you accept it, is to pace the story idea across something like 300 pages without letting the reader down. The writer must carry the reader on a journey through place, time and characterization, using effective language, well written and grounded in a reality that allows the reader to relax when the going gets tough. To my mind this takes a plan. It is a big challenge and, for the novice, breaking the story into manageable scenes is a great place to start.

Happy writing, mon braves! (...with no apologies to Richard Condon) :)

The Future of Books and a Contest

When I realized that our subject this week was the future of books and e-books in the next five years, it gave me pause. It wasn't as if I was completely clueless with regard to the task at hand; I have had the good fortune of having my debut novel published as an e-book. The issue for me was not the meat and potatoes of the dish, but rather the art of preparing the meal. I wrote the novel, but my wonderful publisher Gaynor was the one who handled all of the details.

The e-book: By this time, most people are aware of just exactly what this is. "What's in a name? that which we call a rose By any other name would smell as sweet" (My thanks to Mr. Shakespeare). It's just a book. It won't bite you! Although, a good one will leave a mark. One can download an e-book to their computer, iPhone, e-reader, etc. Most of us not only have personal computers, Laptops and gadgets galore, but have multiples of each! 

The e-future: Imagine if you will that you have just finished reading a very good book. Are you ready to put it down? What if there was more content? Books often carry advertisements for past works by the author or for a forthcoming title, other times the book might include a sample of what's coming. What if the e-book was something called an enhanced e-book? Not only could it carry the usual, but so much more. Picture if you will the ordinary Facebook wall. Most of us have a Facebook account or at least have seen one. Can you see the video links and photos there? Instead of snippets of what the individual has been up to or what their friends have posted on their wall, I want you to envision the pages of a book. Are you reading The Lord of the Rings? Off to the right there is a series of photos. Are you reading Stephen King? Between paragraph one and two is a photo of Bangor, Maine. Better yet, how about a short video walk-thru of the town. Pat Conroy? Now you do not have to imagine what his south looks like, you could simply click the link. 

I know what you are going to say. It's the same argument against music video. Now that I have seen the stupid video, it has robbed my imaginative mind of being able to simply take the lyrics and create my own visual in my head. Okay, forget the photos and links. What if the start of the enhanced e-book contained a brief author's note, where a film began upon your choosing and the author herself thanked you, her faithful reader, for purchasing her work and gave the simplest of introductions. What if the end of the e-book contained an interview session where the author explained the muse for his story or offered other tidbits. Wouldn't that be something? Who knows exactly what the future might bring, but folks, it is coming. 

The Real topic: That was what I was hoping to write about this week. Unfortunately, thanks to all of the comments that I have seen recently from readers claiming that you can take their books from them when you pry them from their cold, dead fingers - we have to talk about something else. Has everybody seen Moonstruck? I hadn't until recently. I love romantic comedies, but must have had some sort of bias against this one for some crazy reason. In any event, I finally saw it, and liked it. So, with regard to the bias that many continue to cling to in terms of being unwilling to embrace e-books: I say, (borrowing Cher's famous line) "Snap out of it!" 

[caption id="attachment_3123" align="alignleft" width="160" caption="Cher and Nicholas Cage in Moonstruck"][/caption]

Forgive me, I'm not writing of those who have said that they cannot yet afford a Kindle or one of the other e-readers out there. It was easy for me. My wife has money! Just kidding. I'm speaking to those who get all nostalgic for paper, curling up in bed with their favorite book or simply their love of  bookstores. This is not the first time that this kind of thing has happened. We have gone through this before.  

This past spring the Blockbuster in my small town of 12,000 or so souls closed. It's a Real Estate now. When I was a teenager we went through periods where we had between two and five video rental stores. Then everyone decided that they should abandon the mom and pop places for the big sexy chain, thus forcing the mom and pops out of business. Now that we can order movies through cable, our computers, our Wii's, etc., we don't necessarily need Blockbuster anymore. And so it goes...  

Quick, somebody hand me a cassette. A what? Yeah, that's what I thought. I might still have a few cassettes lying around the house, probably stored in the garage. If so, they won't work now. Not that I have anything to play them on anymore! Not only that, I've long-since replaced those with CD. While we're on the subject, all of those CD's have been digitally transferred to my pc. They are available for me to listen to when I'm on my pc (like now - I'm listening to Asia), or my iPod (I'm pushing 7000 songs there) or my iPhone. My dad still has an old reel to reel. I haven't seen it in a while, but I'm certain that it is there since my parents don't believe in tossing anything out! Soon, we might not even need to store music. Our devices will simply access "the cloud" where our account is recognized and our purchased/stored music content simply streamed to our device. I don't know a lot about it just yet, but guess what: it's coming, too!  

Back to my wife. When the Kindle showed up magically at our doorstep a few months ago, she gave me that frown. "What did you do?" the frown asked. Yet, guess who uses it more than I do? And so will you. Trust me.  

The Contest: If you are still speaking to me after all of that, we have a contest for you. Wicked Writers is giving away a copy of my e-book, Dance on Fire. Ha! What else could it have been? The contest will run for two weeks. To be eligible, please leave a comment, along with your e-mail address in case you are declared the winner. We also would love it if you signed up for the e-mail delivery option, but will not make it mandatory. I would like to leave you with a note about my book. It is a horror/Christian crossover about vampires. It is a PG-13 story, so don't let the horror label scare you away. It is Christian, but contains some blood and guts and does not get too preachy. There's a bit of romance, too! See, it has everything. How could one possibly lose? Okay, don't answer that.

It gets deeper... (the river, that is!)

Well, this week, I'm following the lead of C.J. and Greg, and opting to give you a taste of my work in progress. A simple explanation... I have mentioned before that I am a very poor reader. I don't actually follow a great deal, so posting some of my work in progress seemed the easier option.

Of course, my problem was then that the only work in progress I had was a spreadsheet with around 68 scene titles forming the plot structure for the sequel to River of Judgement. And Microsoft Excel spreadsheets do not make riveting reads.

Well, the challenge was then to write the first scene or two! So that's what I did yesterday afternoon, in between business meetings. I sat at a cafe in London's Covent Garden market place, amongst heaving crowds of tourists, all wondering what this stange guy in a suit was doing, head bent over the table, scribbling madly into a note book!


So, in the words of C.J. "I know it needs some work..." but here you are (without pictures this time) the first 2000 words of the sequel, hot of my brand new notebook!  It's uncut, unedited... and at the time of posting, less than 24 hours old!  Remember folks: you read it here first!

CHAPTER ONE

It was not a good day to be hauled out of his hotel bed. The Corinthia Hotel in Tripoli had all the comforts he could wish for. But the day had not been good. In fact, there really had been no good days recently.

The Corinthia suffered from the fact that it had little real competition in terms of International-standard accommodation. He’d seen better service and, while his room was clearly modelled on five star luxury, the price he had been paying since his exit from London was proving outrageous. But, strangely, if it had not been for his circumstances, he might actually have enjoyed the sojourn.

Exile was a good descriptor for where he found himself. Oh! He could roam about if he wished. There were no bars on his windows. He was free to come and go… but to go where? For what reason? He was fed up of the restaurant food, but there was little alternative but to eat in. Of course he could get to the Green Square area of the city, but the walk through the old town rarely seemed worth the effort. At the height of a North African summer, movement was a game of jumping from air conditioned environment to air conditioned environment.

No! For Aaron Philips, fugitive from British justice, today was a bad day, and it was going rapidly down hill.

‘Mr Philips?’ said the man in front of him now. ‘I do have your full and undivided attention, do I not? …Mr Philips?’

His contemplation abruptly terminated, Aaron sat forward on a low, white leather stool. His concentration returned to the man opposite. Despite the air conditioning humming in the background, he felt the beads of sweat gather at the nape of his neck, an run, uncontrolled, onto his shirt collar. The man looked at ease as he sat wearing his traditional Berber cloak of thick white wool. Two other men stood, patiently, either side and to the rear of the large sprawling white leather sofa the man occupied. They stood motionless in clichéd black suits, with black open-necked shirts. The dark, Arabic features of the three men made a stark contrast with the clean white contemporary lines of the furniture.

‘Yes,’ Aaron said finally.

‘Good.’

A white cat would have been too much. But, surreally, the thought amused Aaron. A white cat would have been welcome; it would have brought with it an air of Hollywood ambivalence – the chance that this encounter was merely some staged joke over which he could conjure his own outcome, if he wished. Take it or leave it. But he could not leave it. This was no joke – just the menacing presentation of a single option for his continued presence on earth.

The day was not going at all well, thought Aaron. He was, for the first time in his life, scared. He had no idea where all this was going.

‘Mr Philips, you…’ began the man, speaking quietly and deliberately. ‘You have created a problem for me and for my clients.’

Aaron was all ears now, intent, listening.

‘We came to you,’ the man continued, ‘…because friends recommended you.’

Friends, Aaron thought. More people with a grudge against me now.

‘You “were”…’

The use of the past tense struck Aaron hard. Unseen, his body reeled from the metaphoric blow. His career was shot, but that seemed the least of his problems.

‘…highly recommended,’ continued the man, who clearly had no interest in what Aaron might be feeling at this moment. ‘We wanted a legal, financial vehicle to move a great deal of our cash through London. You “were”…’

Again the past tense, again the sudden blow to Aaron’s psyche.

‘We are very disappointed. You have cost us a lot of money. It is time, Mr Phillips.’

‘Time?’ echoed Aaron.

‘Yes, time. Time for you to take action.

‘Time? said Aaron, pathetically. He tried his best not to comprehend what was happening.

‘Time for you to clean up some loose ends.’

‘But…’ began Aaron.

‘No buts, Mr Philips. This is embarrassing for us all. We will, of course, provide you with some assistance. However,…’

‘Yes?’ said Aaron.

‘Make no mistake, it will be sorted.

Had there been a white cat then it would have been purring under the attention of its Master.

‘It will begin without you, Mr Philips.

Aaron felt a chill rake his spine. ‘What will begin?’ he asked. His question was ignored.

The man quickly brought his hands together with a clap, and held his left hand up and out, reaching behind. The aide to his left deftly produced a mobile phone and placed it in the outstretched hand. The man dialled a number. He spoke again, while waiting for his call to connect. ‘Friends, Mr Philips. We will put you in touch. They will make sure that you do no get, shall we say, arrested? Yes, arrested! They will make sure that you are not arrested.’ The man smiled at his own choice of words. ‘At least until the work is done.’

‘What work? asked Aaron.

‘Come now, Mr Philips. Such naivety in one so cunning as yourself…’ he raised his other hand, signalling a halt to the conversation. He turned his attention to the phone. The other party had replied. The man spoke briefly in Arabic. He returned his gaze to Aaron, and continued in his perfect Oxford English, as if he had not been interrupted by the call. ‘I would find the situation charming if it was not so potentially disastrous to us. But now the work has begun.’ He smiled at Aaron.

‘What work? Aaron found himself repeating the question.

‘The clean up, Mr Philips. Your clean up.

The man passed the phone back to his aide and reached his right hand out and behind. This time the aide on his right passed the man a ticket wallet. The man reached forward and held it out to Aaron.

‘Your flight to Paris leaves in one hour, Mr Philips. My aides will escort you. Your case has been packed; it is in the car. And…’ the man paused. ‘Do not fail us this time.

Aaron sat in stunned silence. The ticket wallet seemed to hover but a foot away from his face. He slowly reached up and took it. The aide on the man's left moved round to the front of the sofa and stood next to Aaron, placing a hand gently on his arm.

‘It’s time, Mr Philips,’ said the aide in a thick Arabic accent.

~

Finn Jackson sat at the small, unstable table; its surface, like the others at the Covent Garden café, was covered in a lime-green plastic-like cloth. He ordered a wrap from the plastic-like menu – chorizo and buffalo mozzarella with sun dried tomatoes. He needed something in his stomach.

He checked his watch. Four in the afternoon. It had been a long, hot day so far. Lunch had been liquid. A bottle of chilled rose wine shared with pleasant female company. Business, totally business, he reminded himself. The young lady was a city analyst in oil and gas. She’d been doing a research piece for a client and wanted an update on the ecological impact of the tar sands exploration.

Finn looked around. The crowds in Covent Garden market were heaving as always. The cacophony of sound that reached his ears was a welcome friend. It was a typical London summer’s day: overcast, oppressive, damp heat. Reassuringly unpleasant in a suit. His tie had been discarded the moment he left the comfort of his office with its air conditioning. He moved uncomfortably in his chair, the wooden slats in the seat were leaving impressions on his backside. He looked at the coffee and water that had been placed before him and smiled at no one. He did like his life.

His short repast dispensed with, Finn turned his mind to Alexa. She would meet him there, at five, she had said. Alexa, that vision of loveliness; he had still not worked out in his mind how easily all the pieces had come together for him recently. Things had been so different before.

There was a brief commotion a few tables away from him. He wasn’t sure what had happened. There was a flurry of activity. The waitress, who had just moments ago removed his plate and napkin, now seemed to be on the end of a very polite, but firm dressing down.

Finn looked on.

A women, blonde, her hair in an immaculate off-the-shoulder bob, sat two tables down to his left, midway between him and the piazza with its constant caravan of moving tourists. She looked, to him, to be in her early forties. But he’d never been good at the age game. She was attractive. Classically so. A little thinner than Rueben would have preferred, but all the right curves were there, and in all the right places. His attention had obviously been arrested one moment too long. The waitress and her transgression became history as the women glanced to her right and saw him looking at her. Her almost-stern expression dropped.

There was no one at the tables between Finn’s and her own. She smiled directly at him. Confidence was clearly a virtue the women held in spades. ‘Damned hairdresser,’ she exclaimed.

Finn caught himself smiling back. He reached for his glass of water, as if embarrassed for being caught out – a naughty school boy, caught peeking at his attractive teacher’s shapely legs.

‘I’ve just spent two hours there. Every six weeks – I ask you! You’d think they’d remember…’

Finn chanced his perception. ‘...how you like your hair?’

‘No, damn it! How I like my coffee!’ she smiled. They always do my hair perfectly. I say half an inch and they do half an inch. What more can a girl ask for…’

‘Perfect coffee?’ he ventured. ‘And I suppose the waitress here didn’t help then?’

‘Perceptive for a northerner, aren’t you.’

‘Is my accent that much of a give away?’

‘You could say that,’ she said.

‘Well your hair looks great to me.’

‘Don’t overdo it, you were doing fine just then.

‘Sorry…’

‘And don’t say sorry. I pay a fortune to keep it looking just like this. I like to come out looking just the same as I go in.’

‘I wouldn’t know.’

‘I wouldn’t have expected you to…’

Finn’s phone, resting on the table by his now cooling cup of coffee, burst into chime. He didn’t move to pick it up.

‘Wife?’ the blonde asked, smiling at him.

Finn reached out and slid the Blackberry from its case and looked at the caller ID. He was reassured to see Alexa’s name appear. He looked back to the woman. ‘Partner, I’m not married,’ he said. He had no idea why he felt he’d had to add that qualification.

The blonde woman continued to smile at him. ‘You’d better answer it,’ she said.

‘Yes.’

Finn put the handset to his ear.

‘Finn Jackson? Mr Finn Jackson? repeated the strange and male voice.

‘Yes,’ said Finn, unsure what was going on, but sensing something wrong. He saw the look of concern on the woman’s face as she reacted to his own expression.

‘This is Detective Inspector Clarke.’

Finn felt the colour drain from his face. ‘Pardon,’ he said.

‘DI Dan Clarke. I’m with the British Transport Police down at Holborn station. I’m afraid there’s been an incident.’



~

Well, I hope you like this. I would certainly appreciate any feed back. :)

Am I to Succu(m)b(us)...?

I am joined, today, by my friend Paula Phillips.

Paula hails from New Zealand, is a Librarian by profession, and reads and reviews books from many different genres, from authors all around the world.

Paula reviews books for a number of web sites, including http://www.chicklitclub.com/ and her own www.paulazone.blogdrive.com.

However, today, for Wicked Writers, Paula reviews the “Supernaturally Succubus Series” from author Richelle Mead


A big thank you to Paula…

[caption id="attachment_2743" align="alignright" width="110" caption="Paula Phillips"] [/caption]

With the rise of supernatural beings in fiction, it is no wonder our readingpalettes have been obscured with V ampires, werewolves, fallen angels and demons and, if you are like me, then when you read one book or a particular author, you yearn for more; it’s like a calling for you – “I must read more”.  To me, when I hear the word series, two words come to mind “formula” and “fiction”.

For all those who don’t speak librarian lingo, “formula fiction” is when a book follows the same format in plot, and it’s what we seek as reliable, as we all know what we are in for.

Being asked to write about a favourite series of books, one of my favourites - and one that I am waiting patiently for book five to arrive - is the “Georgina Kincaid Series”, written by Richelle Mead. Richelle is more popularly known as the authoress of the “Vampire Academy Series” aimed at teens.

The Georgina Kincaid series pushes the supernatural to the next level. It moves the reader into the world of the semi-erotic, paranormal romance.

The series is based around the main character Georgina Kincaid, who is now living her life as a Succubus which, for those who aren’t sure, is a female sex-demon; and she comes complete with a mixed bunch of friends - the super-naturals - and some humans!

As in most of Richelle Mead's stories, the main character is a strong female with an attitude to boot, and whom always has a knack for finding herself in:

A) TROUBLE, or

B) a sticky situation that results in a problem TROUBLE,

And, for Succubus Georgina Kincaid – as you readers are about to get a sneaky peek into - TROUBLE is a common recurrence and that, unfortunately, Georgina never learns to avoid.



[caption id="attachment_2742" align="alignleft" width="99" caption="Blue? ...Really?"][/caption]

Book One: Succubus Blues - Richelle Mead – 2007.



To start off this review, I thought I’d clarify what a succubus is: A succubus is an alluring, shape-shifting demon who seduces and pleasures mortal men. And, for fun, as the book says, the definition of Georgina Kincaid is "a pathetic succubus with great shoes and no social life".

However, in Succubus Blues, Georgina's social life is going to get more hectic than she realises. Georgina finds having a social life pretty hard going when you’re a succubus; but it is the way she likes it.

Georgina has her eyes firmly set on her friends: Hugh - An Imp; Jerome - a demon that has a thing for John Cusack (though no matter how much you ask him, he will deny it); Peter and Cody - the vampires; and Carter - an annoying angel.

If this wasn't difficult, she has all her mortal friends at the bookshop she works at. In this book, Georgina's favourite author is coming to the bookshop. As usual, Georgina and Seth hit it off, which would have been great if Georgina didn’t have an admirer – Roman, who happens to be a Nephilim and a killer.

As we read, Georgina hits the stacks and becomes a succubus, Nancy Drew. It wouldn’t be a book about Nephilim’s, without appreciating the verse in the Bible’s "Genesis Chapter 6", which talks about Angels and Fallen Angels.



[caption id="attachment_2741" align="alignright" width="100" caption="Yes...?"][/caption]

Book Two: Succubus on Top, AKA Succubus Nights (Depending which copy you pick up) - Georgina Kincaid Series - Richelle Mead - 2008

Love Sucks and Hurts, especially for Georgina, a succubus who has just got herself a new boyfriend in author Seth Mortensen. Georgina has to be so careful not to kiss him or get sexually involved, otherwise she will drain his life-force. Admittedly, the shape shifting and immortality perks are terrific, and yes, Georgina did choose to join the ranks of hell centuries ago. But it seems completely unfair that a she-demon whose purpose is seduction can't get hot and heavy with the one mortal who knows and accepts her for who she is.

It's not just her personal life that's in chaos.

Doug, Georgina's co-worker at a local bookstore, has been exhibiting bizarre behaviour, and Georgina suspects that something far more demonic than double espressos is at work.

She could use help finding out, but Bastien, an irresistibly charming incubus, and her best immortal friend, is preoccupied in the suburbs with corrupting an ultra-conservative talk radio star - and giving Georgina some highly distracting come-hither vibes.

If this wasn't trouble enough with the behaviour Doug is experiencing, others will soon start to have terrible consequences if Georgina, once again, can't save the day. For Georgina, who has just received a gold star certificate, this is a job she's getting used to.

Book 3 Succubus Dreams - Richelle Mead - 2008

[caption id="attachment_2740" align="alignright" width="99" caption="Dream on..."][/caption]

For some girls, especially Georgina, they just can't catch their breath, and today is one of those days; or should I say one of those books.

In Book three we are introduced to the not very nice Imp Niphon - he was the one that, way back, centuries and centuries ago, Georginia sold her soul to.

Imp has arrived in Seattle with a new succubus in tow, and a mission - or should I say a job - that Georgina, if she knows what is good for her, can't turn down! Georgina is to mentor and help break-in a new succubus, Tawny Johnson. Tawny, in Georgina's eyes, (and I agree) is a mega-slut, and Skank, with a capital S.

However, as always Georgina finds herself stuck in the middle of trouble, she has a Nyx after her - draining away her energy while she dreams weird dreams of her future, or a past that could have been.

Georgina’s home, due to Carter, the angel, has been invaded by a group of semi-ungrateful angels and, of course, Tawny and Niphon.

If this wasn't bad enough, Georgina has gotten her friend Doug's sister a job, and she and Seth have been getting more than your average cosy.

Can Georgina, with the help of friends, get out of this mess as usual, and find her Christmas/New Year spirit. And does this book signify the end of the Seth/Georgina odd no-sex relationship?



[caption id="" align="alignright" width="99" caption="Hot stuff..."][/caption]

Book 4: Succubus Heat - Richelle Mead - 2009

Georgina has been in a funk - stuck in a never-ending rut, and is really starting on a downer and is annoying all her immortal friends.

Made to go and see a therapist by her “John-Cusack-lookalike” boss Jerome - after separating from Writer boyfriend Seth – Georgina does the one thing Jerome tells her not to do. The one thing a succubus does best... You guessed it! Sleep with the poor guy.

Now Georgina has Jerome in an uproar, so Jerome has come up with a little plan to get Georgina out of his hair. Send her to Vancouver, Canada on a mission. She has to stop the so-called amateur Satanist group, "The Army of Darkness", from making fools of themselves. For anyone else this would be an easy task but, as we all know, trouble follows Georgina everywhere and she is about to find herself in the middle of a big Demon War.

When Jerome goes missing and the immortals lose their abilities, it is up to Georgina to put her human mind to work and, with the help of some friends, find out where Jerome is. Georgina restores peace and their abilities before all the immortals are stuck in a never-ending time warp.

Keep your eyes open as old characters re-appear and new ones appear, and watch out for book Five to be released - Succubus Shadows.

So next time you are browsing your shelves for a good series to pick up and read, and the supernatural paranormal romance is a favourite genre of yours, head over to the M’s and check out the books by Richelle Mead.

Other Series include: Vampire Academy (6 Books) and Dark Swan (2 Books)

Paula

Thank you for joining us at Wicked Writers, Paula...

David :)

Is Dark Rural Fantasy a Subgenre?

I’ve already mentioned a few times that my novel is a mix of fantasy, horror and comedy, but those are the main literary genres. What about all those subgenres out there? Where does it fit with those?

I hadn’t really thought too much about subgenres until I read …What is Dark Urban Fantasy over at All Things Urban Fantasy, coincidentally the week before writing this post. Read it and you'll find there is no clear description for this subgenre, but the author provides some great examples that lead me to believe The Courier could fall under dark urban fantasy. Still, I wanted to investigate further, so like the author, I ended up on Wikipedia.

Starting at the top of the list, with the historical genre, I found speculative fiction as a subgenre. One of my favorite short story categories to read. There are aspects of distorted history in my story, and book three may have some time travel in it. Check that one off as a possibility.

Science Fiction? Well, cyberpunk may fit because my protagonist, Barry, is a computer genius, although he doesn’t get to use his skills in book 1. Who knows where it might take him in future books…evil laugh.

Am I boring you yet?

I know I was bored until I happened upon:

Splatterpunk—a term coined in 1986 by David J. Schow at the Twelfth World Fantasy Convention in Providence, Rhode Island—refers to a movement within horror fiction distinguished by its graphic, often gory, depiction of violence and "hyperintensive horror with no limits.”

Cool!

The book cover to the right was written in the 1920s though. Have to say that Story of the Eye is one of the grossest stories I’ve ever read, but still one of my favorite books. I aspire to write romance as well as Georges Bataille, although there's not much romance in my series!

Considering I've just segued into horror, add ghosts and occult. Enough said. Wrap it all up in dark comedy and you have The Courier, except I still haven't settled on a subgenre for fantasy.

Most of the first two novels in The Courier series are certainly dark and fantastic, but primarily set in a rural area of Colorado. Not until the third novel does Barry return to Denver. So is there a dark rural fantasy category? Why did they throw in urban anyways? It's not like all the evil characters in the world would flock to the cities. For all we know, cattle mutilations could be the work of vampires and zombies, and not aliens.

And now, back to the true purpose of this post. How do I write in all these genres and subgenres? Well schizophrenia runs in my family. But seriously, folks, our lives could never fit into one genre, so how could the stories we tell fit into one?

Rebel Writer Without a Cause

Okay, who picked this week’s topic? I hope it wasn’t me. No really. The last thing I want to talk about this week is where I’m at with my current novel. Hell, I think I’d have more fun gouging out my eyes than talking about finishing The Courier. Hey, C.J., could we use another guest blogger this week?

[caption id="" align="alignright" width="160" caption="Mmmm... James Dean as my protagonist."][/caption]

Anyways... Lately, The Courier is like a relationship with your teenage child. You love and nurture him from the very beginning, but towards the end of his teens, he’s lucky he’s still alive. The only saving grace is when he receives his first acceptance letter to a college, and you realize it's only a short while before you can boot his ass out the door. In the case of my novel, throwing it in the fireplace and burning every last stinkin’ bit of it would be more than satisfying at the moment. But yesterday, Steve said, "never throw anything away," and that’s some really valuable advice. Especially five seconds into the burning, when I jump into the flames to save Barry, Nina and all their evil friends.

I guess it’s normal to have a love/hate relationship with your novels. And, I suppose this phase of writing the damn thing was inevitable. Remember me saying I started writing The Courier as a fun experiment, not really taking it seriously. Now, six months later, I'm so freakin' wrapped up in the story line and characters, I can see them all glaring at me from across my desk, disappointed I'm not moving their lives along quicker.

[caption id="" align="alignleft" width="191" caption="Go get him, Michael"][/caption]The shit really hit the fan when I read in Manuscript Makeover, and a few other places, that it's hard to sell a novella as a first time author. ARGH! That's exactly what I had been writing. Shortly before that, I started contemplating serializing The Courier. Oh, and my agent also asked if I had thought about adding in more of the traditional and biblical acceptance of Satan and the origins of evil. I replied I had for a later book, but that answer seemed absurd. When I wrapped it all up in one package, the story no longer made sense as a novella.

So where am I now? Still organizing chaos, like I was a couple weeks ago. It's getting easier though. I've rewritten the ending, lengthening it and twisting in more conflict for a better flavor. Took me a few months to really figure it out though, which is frustrating considering I had hoped to have the first draft completed by now.

On a good note, I got a couple reminders from friends that things could be much worse, one being a ridiculous ad, posted by a not so nice individual, looking for writers to edit 500 word articles for $1.25 a piece. Yeah, I'll take my troubles with my novel over that work any day.