New Kid On the Block -- Introducing Cat Winters!

This week on Write In the Shadows we are talking about the writing spaces we create for ourselves.  As the blogosphere is an indefinable, wide-open space, it's interesting to see who's new (and not-so-new) out there, so please join me in welcoming, to our WITS space here, a new author on the scene, Cat Winters.  You may already know and love Cat Winters – she’s the YA-genre alter ego of Catherine Karp at the Suburban Vampire blog. Ms. Karp decided to re-work one of her novels into a Young Adult ghost tale and thus, Cat Winters was born, and is now our very special guest today. 

WITS:  So, Cat Winters – you and writing, how did it all begin? 

CW:     It started before I even knew how to write.  I can remember jotting down stories by sounding out the letters, and I really wish I kept those original written attempts at storytelling.  Two of my teachers in elementary school made me feel like my writing was special, but at the time I thought I wanted to be an actress when I grew up.  Writing was just something I did; as Steinbeck once said, "I nearly always write, just as I nearly always breathe."  It wasn't until after I graduated from college that I fully understood that writing was my true calling in life.

WITS:  It is interesting how writing hits many of us later in life, when we’ve got our “sensible” careers and degrees underway.  I understand that you are working upon your debut novel, Blackbirds, which you plan to submit to your agent in late 2010.  Blackbirds is a Young Adult novel which centers on two adolescents, one of whom is a ghost.  Can you tell us a bit more about the plot and the conflicts therein?  Is there a romance?

 CW:     Blackbirds is the story of a sixteen-year-old girl who's having trouble facing life in 1918 America.  Everyone around her lives in fear of the deadly Spanish influenza pandemic, young men disappear overseas to a world war, and anyone who speaks the enemy's language or protests the war risks jail and violence.

 A near-death experience straddles my heroine between the world of the living and the realm of the dead, and she's able to communicate with the frustrated spirit of an eighteen-year-old friend of the family who's been told he was killed in battle.  However, he doesn't remember dying, and he's haunted by "ugly things" in the afterlife.  My protagonist indeed feels a romantic attachment to him, plus she's drawn to a German teen who's trying to survive as a foreigner in the middle of America's atmosphere of "superpatriotism."  Blackbirds becomes my heroine's quest to help both the dead and the living--including herself--understand the horrors around them and figure out where they belong. 

 WITS:  I love juxtapositions between the ‘real world’ horrors and those of the supernatural realm, and the plot sounds like it’s got a lot of atmosphere.  In addition, the title, Blackbirds, is so intriguing.  It reminds me of that nursery rhyme with the four-and-twenty blackbirds baked in a pie (as well as the Agatha Christie murder mystery based upon said rhyme, A Pocketful of Rye).  What does the title mean and why did you choose it?

 CW:     I was searching for titles in WWI poetry and came across the phrase "dark-clothed children at play" and really liked the image.  During WWI, not only were people dressed in black because they were in mourning, but a German dye ban kept Americans in drab colors.  Add a white, beak-like flu mask to the equation, and I realized people resembled blackbirds.  My character says, "We all looked like bad luck."

WITS:  “Dark-clothed children at play” – that is a vivid and haunting picture.  Did you find that writing for a YA audience involves different rules or a different thought process than writing for adults?

CW:     I feel writing for YA is so much more freeing than penning tales for an adult audience.  My first agent tried to help me break into historical fiction for adults, but at the time only romance was selling.  I learned the rigid rules writers needed to follow to get published in the women's market.  My edgier stories didn't go over well.  With teen fiction, I've been told by my current agent and an editor that there's no limit to the darkness and edginess of a story.  The book industry doesn't handle teens like glass, which was the impression I got about the treatment of women readers.

WITS:  Yes, I did discover that when I wrote my own vampire tale – the current supernatural realm focuses more on romances than on edgier themes, though a few break through.  Speaking of ‘break-throughs’, I’ve noticed that the Harry Potter series really put YA on the shelves for adult readers as well, meaning that I saw many grown-ups reading the tale of the boy wizard unabashedly in public, discussing it at the water cooler and at book clubs (I myself was a huge fan!!).  I think that this helped pave the way for the Twilight craze, which also has a large number of adult readers.  In your research regarding YA novels, did you find any reasons for the sudden appeal of YA for adults? What is it specifically about Blackbirds that you think will appeal to adults?

 CW:     Most of the theories I've read point to society's need for fantasy right now.  The dark wizards and vampires could very well be metaphors for the evil that exists in the real world, and even adults feel more comfortable facing their fears in a fantasy context instead of reading novels about modern terrorists.  Deep down, grown-ups would all love to have special powers to keep themselves and their families safe from the bad guys.  Plus young adult book covers are so alluring these days!  I admit, part of why I picked up Twilight was because of that intriguing apple design on the front.  The books look like works of art, so it's no longer embarrassing to walk around with a YA novel in your hands. 

 The adults who've sampled the early drafts of Blackbirds are responding the strongest to my central character (yes, I'm purposely being secretive about her name for the time being).  She's scientific minded and highly intelligent, but she's also confident, honest, and unafraid to face her own fears in order to understand them.  To me, she's the perfect voice for a roller coaster ride through a troubled era and horrifying situations.  She possesses the strength of spirit I wish I could always summon when faced with adversity. 

WITS:  She sounds amazing (and a mystery too, just like Mrs. DeWinter!!) and reminds me of Meg from one of my favorite childhood books, A Wrinkle In Time.  Two of my other favorites are Are You There God, It’s Me, Margaret, and The Ghost Next Door, and I find myself returning to these even now that I’m an adult (almost!).  What are some of your favorites?

 CW:     The three you mentioned are ones I adored, too (I still have my copies!).  I also loved Frances Hodgson Burnett's A Little Princess and A Secret Garden, which helped inspire my love of stories set in the past.  My absolute favorite novel was To Kill a Mockingbird.  I read it about four times between the ages of nine and fourteen.  I finally picked it up again after all these years and have been rediscovering why I fell in love with it at such a young age.  Scout cracks me up.  She's so real and honest, which is why it's often best to be guided through dark subject matter by a child narrator.  They can detect humor, peculiarities, and hypocrisy in ways adults don't always see.

WITS:  Inside the Writer’s Studio – I always like it when James Lipton asks questions based upon the Proust Questionnaire in his show, Inside the Actor’s Studio, so here goes:

a.      Favorite music to listen to while you write

I'm the type of writer who can't write while listening to music.  I can work in coffee houses with people chatting around me, but for some reason music alone distracts me.  However, I often listen to my classical station before writing to find the depth of emotions needed for my scenes. 

 b.      Favorite fictional hero or heroine

Atticus Finch.  It goes back to my love for To Kill a Mockingbird.  I drive around with a bumper sticker on my car that says, "What would Atticus do?"

 c.       Favorite real-life ghost

Kate Morgan, the ghost who supposedly haunts the Hotel del Coronado across the bay from San Diego.  My husband and I stayed in the hotel for our fifth anniversary, and I hurriedly looked up the legend in our hotel room to make sure we weren't staying in one of the haunted areas.  I love ghost stories, but not if they're occurring in the room where I'm sleeping.

 d.      Favorite work of art

A wolf sculpture my daughter made in a ceramics class when she was nine.  It took her eleven weeks to create it.

 e.      Least favorite color

Pea-soup green.

 f.        Least favorite food

Cheese, except for mozzarella. 

g.      What do you want to be when you grow up?

I think deep down I've always wanted to be a filmmaker.  One of my majors in college was drama, and I mistakenly studied the acting side of it.  I discovered I wanted to be the one who creates the stories instead of the one acting out someone else's imaginary scenarios.  Perhaps after my kids are grown, I'll become a film school granny. 

WITS:  Thank you so much for being with us today, Cat!  I really enjoyed our talk together, and I’m sure our readers did as well. 

 CW:  Thanks so much for having me, Nicole.  I enjoyed being here!

 WITS:  For anyone interested in knowing more about Cat Winters and her novel Blackbirds, please visit her blog right here, her Twitter account, and her Facebook page.  She also blogs regularly over at The Fictional Worlds of Catherine Karp, and at the much-loved Suburban Vampire site. 

 CW:  Thanks so much, Nicole!!!  That was fun.

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. :)

Yellow Beehives, Lipstick Teeth & Favorite Authors

Today, I am joined by my guest, Kate Porelli.

One of the joys I have found since beginning to write fiction in earnest, and making that writing available on the internet, is coming to know a whole new bunch of exciting and interesting people, some readers and some writers - take my fellow Wicked Writers, for example.

Then there has been the opportunity to give advice to those who are at the beginning of their writing careers, or those just thinking about starting out. But I think the most rewarding experience is to prompt someone to take action and for that action to produce something tangible - a piece of writing.



[caption id="attachment_2827" align="alignright" width="150" caption="Proof..."][/caption]

My guest today is posting her first ever blog! But, despite this, Kate knows about writing – she is a proof reader and editor, and offers us an excellent insight into our craft!

Kate has always liked working for herself, and after being made redundant as a Personal Assistant for the second time in two years, she decided to take up proof reading as a profession. She'd read something somewhere about a lot of transcription work being outsourced abroad, and how it's then proof read in the UK. So, Kate tells me, being of a picky and meticulous nature (she has been known to argue with the radio, apparently) and always having been a reader for fun, she thought that it sounded like a job she could enjoy.

I hope you enjoy her proof reader’s insight…



[caption id="attachment_2825" align="alignleft" width="130" caption="Kate Porelli"][/caption]

YELLOW BEEHIVES, LIPSTICK TEETH & FAVOURITE AUTHORS

by Kate Porelli


OK, I’ll come clean. I’m not a writer. (Well, not yet anyway!) But I was asked if I’d like to guest blog on my favourite authors, through the point of view of one of the peripheral aspects of writing as, by trade, I am a proof reader and copy editor. It puts a roof over my head and food on the table, but it doesn’t stop there, not for me. Nor does it mean that I am a full-time apostrophe fascist (although I am; I once refused to eat in a café that advertised “panini’s” just on principle).

Proof reading has, as a by-product, changed my whole view of the written word, either fact or fiction. In short, I have become a very demanding reader, as those of you who see us (not entirely wrongly) as pedantic nit-pickers, will already have assumed.

Sloppy writing and lack of continuity is something I’m trained to see, which isn’t always of benefit as it can ruin an otherwise perfectly adequate story. The other side of the coin is that I can now spot eloquence when I see it, and as a result I find that I am enjoying a far wider field of writing than before.

[caption id="attachment_2828" align="alignleft" width="129" caption="A wandering tale..."][/caption]

I believe that writers are the modern equivalent of the travelling bards and story-tellers whose job, when only the elite could read, was to captivate their audience and to beguile, enthral and entertain. It is not a job that should be done lackadaisically.

Our world is in a state of constant change and innovation and it’s right that our language reflects this fact. However, I hasten to add that, in my belief, text speak should be a recognised crime, punishable by long periods in a forced training camp where people have to write things out in full for sixteen hours a day until they get the hang of it. But I digress…

We have more access than ever before to great literature and even things like computer spelling and grammar checkers that will tell you (more or less) if you are making mistakes and yet, perversely, I find that the standard of writing in general is falling.

I often read manuscripts that Mrs Palmer (my old English Language teacher) would have called us up to the front of the class and picked to pieces before sending us away to do them again. (I didn’t like her daffodil yellow beehive or the lipstick on her teeth, but thought it best not to say so!) And these are manuscripts from educated people to whom the English language just doesn’t seem to matter any more.

A good story needs a plot that holds the reader’s attention and characters they can become emotionally invested in, that goes without saying, but that isn’t enough by itself. A good story needs clear and elegant phrasing to lift it above the mundane.

If asked to pick a favourite author I wouldn’t be able to. There are too many to choose from. Writers are like favourite foods – chocolate is lovely but not if you’re in the mood for steak. Stephen King spins a good yarn and can hold my attention throughout a volume the size of a couple of house bricks, Neil Gaiman has both surrealism and wit on his side, Graham Greene wins in the elegance category, Bill Bryson has me laughing out loud, but Terry Pratchett fills me with awe at the inspired bizarreness of his world (despite the sneaking suspicion that some of his references go over my head).

Terry Pratchett is the closest I can get to defining the writer I would like to have been. I still haven’t read all of his books, I get through perhaps three or four a year, read them slowly and savour every moment. He puts a sentence together and plants a new concept like nobody else can, I am still trying to imagine what colour magic is and still as taken as I ever was with the idea of octarine (an eighth colour which is only normally visible to wizards and cats and described as a “greenish-yellow purple” in the books).

[caption id="attachment_2831" align="alignright" width="86" caption="Great hat, Terry..."][/caption]

All that aside though, Terry’s prose is so precise that he can throw a new word that he has just made up into the middle of a passage and you know exactly what it means and that to me has to be the sign of a great modern writer, the writing doesn’t have to be standard stuff, but the quality has to be able to carry it if you’re going to go out on a limb.

So, you may (or may not) want to know, what I think makes a bad piece of writing.

I’ll tell you anyway.

From the point of view of a reader (not a professional reader, mind you, just a general reader in the street), there are the obvious things like a poor plot, lack of research, continuity going to pot and characters I can’t either empathise with or loathe. None of these need any further comment from me, but other story wreckers are using five long words where three short ones will do, (which often appears to just be an author showing that they know long words), and repetition.

Repetition includes both the double statement sort (“he glanced quickly”) and the kind where somebody will use one particular word over and over again (“nice” syndrome). Then, of course, there’s a fine line between enough description or detail and too much. One enormous advantage the written word has is that the reader can add their own imagination to that of the writer, it somehow makes us feel part of things.

A good proof reader or copy editor is a necessary evil, it’s our job to know how a finished piece will read and it’s what we do best (well, that and getting irritated by signs that say “potatoe’s” and sighing a lot whilst reading newspapers).

Kate Porelli

Thank you for joining us today, Kate.

A Cue from Stephen King

Stephen King once said that he would try to horrify his audience and, if he couldn't do that, then he'd terrify them. If he couldn't do either, he'd go for the gross out.

I figure I'll try the same logic with the this prologue from my next horror novel Red Herring:

(Note: Be careful about reading this late at night or with the windows open)

Red Herring

Prologue

Clyde Gaudin wiped a sheen of sweat from his forehead and then went back to typing on his computer. Man, what is with this weather, he said to himself. The exhaust fan in the attic was working overtime trying to draw out all of the oppressive heat that had settled into his house while he’d been away at work.

For more than a month, it had been hotter than normal in the Atlanta area. Humidity had been high, resulting in powerful thunderstorms that had pummeled most of the northern half of Georgia. Even worse, after those same storms had passed, it had grown uncomfortably muggy, adding insult to injury.

He took another look at the project showing on the monitor and smiled. He had finally worked out all of the bugs and kinks. Not wanting to tempt fate, he saved the screen and then typed in another URL to check the sports scores. Atlanta was playing Boston in an interleague game tonight and he wanted to see if his Braves had found their offense after being waxed the previous night, 24-0.

The game popped up and he cringed. The Braves were down 16-0 in the top of the seventh and it looked like four different players were doing the damage. The only good news was that the game, already delayed three hours by that last thunderstorm, was in danger of being called by another approaching thunderst--

“Yahh!" he exclaimed. "What the hell?”

He shoved the keyboard drawer in and slapped at his left leg. Looking down, he curled his lips in disgust when he saw a roach scurrying away. Angrily, he spun around and stomped on the bug, smearing its body across the concrete floor.

Damned roaches, he snorted. Buggers were getting bolder, crawling right up his leg like he was a piece of furniture.

It was the rain and the heat and the humidity that was driving more of the pests into houses all over the neighborhood. He’d already killed a dozen this evening alone. It had gotten so bad that he had taken to keeping a fly swatter next to his computer workstation.

He lifted his foot and looked at the remains on the floor. At least these were easy to kill. It was those giant cockroaches that really got him. He still remembered the one he’d smashed that very morning. It had scared the crap out of him, coming in under his bedroom door and running right across the rug, straight at him.

Was it really trying to get at him or was it running for cover to get out of the open? Clyde didn’t care. He stomped on it as soon as it got close. And then he stomped on it again when it laughed at him and kept on running. Finally, he had to step on it, twist his foot and then drag it across the rug, leaving roach parts behind.

Remember, Clyde, they're not cockroaches.

His neighbor Roger had pointed that out to him one day. The giant roaches were really called Palmetto bugs, but they looked like roaches. And they could fly. Well, most roaches could fly, but these…Palmettos…could fly across a room.

Suddenly, one flew right by his head and he jumped back, sending his chair rolling back until it hit the far wall. Struggling to catch his breath, Clyde watched the damned thing alight on his flat-screen television. He got angry. It seemed as if they were trying to take over the whole damned house.

He grabbed his fly swatter and edged over to the television. The bug stopped, its antenna twitching as if it knew he was there. He feinted at it and it took off, toward for the far wall. Clyde smiled, happy that the stupid pest had taken his bait. He swatted at it with a forehand worthy of Steffi Graf, connected and sent it bouncing off the opposite wall. He followed up by crushing it with his booted foot when it landed, stunned, on the floor.

It took him a few minutes to retrieve a paper towel to clean up the remains of both roaches and dispose of them unceremoniously in the garbage. He came back and sat down at his computer again. He figured he might as well do some more work instead of going to bed.

Quite frankly, he really did not want to sleep. He was worried about the roaches. A few days earlier, he’d slapped away a Palmetto that had crawled across his stomach as he’d read a book in bed. Now, with the windows open to let in positive air flow to replace what the exhaust fan took out, every time a breeze disturbed the hair on his legs, he was slapping at them. He had red marks everywhere.

He’d finally convince himself that he was being foolish and would fall back asleep long enough to get a decent night’s rest before work. That effort to convince himself usually took an hour, thanks to his insatiable curiosity for useless information. How many times had he read about horrible mishaps involving cockroaches, crawling into ears, up nostrils and into people’s mouths as they slept? Sometimes, he wondered if he wasn't too smart for his own good.

He brought his screen back up from screensaver mode and scrunched his face. His project was almost finished, yet whenever he took a fresh look, he found something he wanted to change. He supposed that maybe he was trying to be perfect with this little scheme.

Little?

If all went as planned, there would be nothing little about it. He’d get back at them. And the best part would be that they would be the cause of their own downfall.

Finally, he finished and set up the project for delivery. He made it for the next morning, at two a.m., well before even the early risers. Satisfied with himself, he leaned back in his chair and let out a deep breath.

That’s when he noticed it.

Sitting right on the paper loaded into his printer holding tray.

Antennae twitching as it looked at him, unfazed by the fly swatter sitting nearby. 

My God, that roach is huge, Clyde thought, sitting upright. Normally, they were slightly larger than his thumb. This one was bigger than two thumbs side by side.

He thought about his swatter, but reaching for it would make the roach scurry away and he didn’t want something that huge crawling around his house. Besides, sitting on the edge of the stack of printer paper, it did not have enough of a foundation beneath it to be crushed. He’d swat it and the paper would bend, taking out most of the kinetic force of the swing.

Instead, he reached over to the other side of the computer and grabbed the roach spray. He normally kept it at hand for the smaller roaches because they died almost immediately after being sprayed. But, he knew the big ones died more slowly and more violently, thrashing about, running to and fro, flitting this way and that.

They’d run up the wall, take flight and land in his food and drink.

He didn’t have a choice, though. He switched the can to his right hand. Making sure he wasn’t aiming at himself, he leaned forward and caught the roach full in the face with a burst of spray.

He breathed a sigh of relief when the roach leaped away from him. He watched it disappear into the dark space behind the printer stand. For good measure, he stood, leaned over and sprayed two blasts into the darkness.

He decided that it was time for bed. He didn’t want to be around for this roach’s death throes. He had already set his computer to send out the e-mail, so there was nothing else for him to do anyway.

He logged off, pushed back from the work station and got up. Stretching, he grabbed his swatter and his spray and headed upstairs. At the top of the stairs, he hit the lights and sent the den into darkness.

A moment later, he came back to the top of the stairs and stared down at the bottom.

He listened but caught nothing. Hmm, he was sure he’d heard something. He finally told himself that he was tired and had imagined he'd heard something out of the ordinary. Yeah, just like that light he thought he'd seen in the woods, he mused.

Despite the mental reassurance, deep down, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was happening down there and it was more than just the death throes of a bug. Quickly, he reached back and turned off the exhaust fan. He then turned to the switch on the opposite wall and clicked on the light at the bottom of the stairwell.

He saw nothing and sighed in relief.

Then, a chill ran up his spine and he shivered. Why was he letting himself get so unnerved? Had the roaches gotten him that upset? If so, maybe he should spend the money for an exterminator.

He thought about letting loose some more spray toward the bottom of the stairs, if only to give him some false bravado. He didn’t, though. That would only acknowledge that his unfounded fears were true.

Chiding himself, he turned off the light again, set the security alarm on the wall unit by his bedroom and turned in for the night.

In the darkness of the stairwell, something moved up the wall.


The peacefulness of the Stone Mountain neighborhood was shattered again by the ear-piercing sirens and extremely bright red and blue flashing lights of the DeKalb police cars. Nobody’s sleep was disturbed, though. Everyone on the block was already awake when the two police cars screeched to a halt before 981 Cabot Court.

Sergeant Oliver Danbury was out of his car like a shot, sprinting across the lawn, through the house's open front door and up the staircase. He and the officer behind him had their hands on the grips of their pistol the whole time.

A female officer stood in the doorway of the bedroom, but she was turned away from them, her hands covering her mouth. Danbury pushed past her, vainly looking for someone to tell him the situation.

Exasperated, he looked around. The bedroom was a mess. It looked as if a tornado had swept through.

Danbury saw something in the far corner, strode over and cringed when he saw Gaudin’s body splayed half off his bed, arms and legs akimbo. And Danbury was sure that he'd never forget the horrific look on Gaudin's face. My God, he thought, it looked as if the man's eyes were about to burst from his skull.

Danbury looked back at the female officer and, for the life of him, he couldn't imagine such a seasoned veteran gagging at the condition of the corpse.

"Fletcher, pull yourself together," he snapped. "What the hell happ--"

He stopped abruptly and looked down. Something was wrong with the body.

He leaned in for a closer look.

Gaudin's cheeks puffed out. Something was inside Gaudin’s mouth and it was moving!

Then, Danbury saw the corpse's lips move, the mouth open and thumb-sized shapes flood out, across the dead man’s face. Two of the shapes quickly sprouted wings and took flight even as Danbury suppressed the urge to scream.

Gaudin’s mouth was full of giant roaches!

While the female cop might have turned away from the terrible sight, Fergis, the other officer in the room, went one further by heading downstairs to the den as fast as his legs could carry him. He stopped by a computer, leaned against the wall opposite it and took several deep breaths to hold down his gag reflex.

He didn't notice the computer screen suddenly come to life by displaying a single message.

"Delivery complete."

********************************************************

I hope you enjoyed reading this. I still get chills when I read it. I...hold on a minute. There's a damn cockroach looking at me. Let me get the fly swatter.

Be back in a mksitels.......................

Opening of The Hunt

Our topic this week gave us a choice - we could list the author blogs we follow and why or post an excerpt of our current work in progress. I'm almost halfway through the second book in my series, The V V Inn, and decided I'd like to share the opening.

I know it needs some work, like beefing up descriptions and things, but it's not bad. I hadn't realized how hard it would be to weave in details of the first book to bring a new reader up to speed and progress the new story line along. It's definitely a juggling act I'm still learning. But since my first book still hasn't sold, I've certainly got some time!

Chapter One

Vivian

As I lie here, curled around my husband’s firm body, I begin to wonder: Am I crazy? What in the hell made me think organizing a hunt here at our hotel would be a good idea? Over a dozen supernatural predators are flying in from all over the world, ones who’ve paid an exorbitant price for the privilege of removing their everyday masks and killing one of their own kind. I must be crazy.

I have a feeling this week is going to turn out to be more than any of us bargained for. Self-doubt plagues me as I rise from the warmth of the bed and stroll naked to my closet. The artificial glow of the landscape lighting beams in through the windows, indicating with the changing gradient it’s probably mid-day here above the Arctic Circle.

Part of my nervous edge could be associated with learning to trust the new members of our vampire family, or seethe. The vampires appear upfront and honest, as much as a pack of bloodsuckers can be, but my old habits of non-trust have kept me around for a long time.

The two months since November's tracking and killing of Ivan have been a trial for me.  This upcoming hunt week has been a long time in the planning, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it. Having anyone from the Tribunal of Ancients on our property sucks, especially when I have no idea who they’re sending.

Grabbing the clothes I set out in the wee hours of the morning, I head to the shower in our private suite.

The hot water cascading over me fills my mind with horrible memories of my own first hunt. The group of vampires wore cloth-lined silver skull-caps to thwart my unique vampire-to-vampire mind-controlling abilities. They had orchestrated a hunt to rid themselves of their “pet” manipulator. What started for the group as demented undead fun, ended with a young vampire who surprised them all with her ability to kill ruthlessly and without remorse.

The blood of my seethe-mates once covered my body, as the water does now. Later, I stacked their headless corpses in our old farmhouse before setting the structure on fire. Killing that sick group was the least I could do avenge the murders of my first and second husbands. After all I'd been through under their rule for twenty-six years, I let the bastards off easy. Thankfully, even a vampire can only die once—if it's done right.

The sound of Rafe stirring in the next room pulls me out of my dark thoughts and informs me he’s getting up as well.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” I call out over the sound of the shower. “Get enough rest?”

“You mean after you ravaged me for hours? Oh yeah, I slept pretty damn sound.”

I turn the water off and wring out my long hair, before leaving the enclosure to reach for a towel. Rafe puts one in my hand before I have a chance to connect with the rack on the wall.

Smiling my thanks, I dry myself quickly. “We’re meeting with the whole seethe in about a half hour. Want me to call the kitchen to send you in something to eat?”

“Isn't Paul on cooking duty?” Rafe grimaces. “No thanks. I’ve got leftovers in our fridge. I’m good.”

“His cooking will get better. Give him some time. It’s been a hard adjustment since he’s made the change and can’t sample his own cooking anymore.”

“Yeah, I know. But it’s a painful process waiting for him to re-learn.”

“That’s the easy part,” I snort. “The real challenge since he became a vampire is in trying to get him not to drain his family whenever he sees them.”

Rafe strips for his own shower and pats me on the bottom as he heads inside the enclosure. “With great power comes great responsibility.”

“Don’t get all philosophical on me. I may not have wanted four new members in our seethe, but I’ll manipulate and train the buggers as best I can.”

The water hisses back on and steam fills the room once more. A muted electronic ringing comes from the bedroom and I head in to answer it.

“Yes?”

Asa’s clipped tones greet me on the other end of the line, “Hey, Vivian.” He addresses me, like most everyone at the inn, by my nickname. “I heard water in the pipes. You almost ready for the meeting?”

.

Hope you enjoyed it! I'd love to hear your thoughts.

VERBAL REASONING… Improvisation on-line, 101

Not the usual suspects…

[caption id="attachment_2811" align="alignright" width="104" caption="I said "Not"!"][/caption]

I said NOT the usual suspects… but, then again, have you ever been Keyser Sözed? Do you ever wish to do (or have you ever done) a Keyser Söze in your story line?

Take a look around you… you are a writer, or a reader, or both. What can you see that will add credence to the realities you write, or read into?

Well, after two great posts from Greg and George on our blog this week, about favourite on-line writing resources, what else is there to write about? Clearly I have to come at this from another angle.

It is, oh, sooooooooo difficult following others on a chosen subject!

Pass me my foundation, darling…

[caption id="attachment_2814" align="alignleft" width="118" caption="That's a cover up, then?"][/caption]

I, too, am a fan of on-line tools such as dictionaries and a good thesaurus. And, as for Wikipedia? Well, I find it a brilliant tool, despite the limitations of knowledge validation (which are, frankly, and in my humble opinion, in some cases not without foundation).

Foundationless knowledge… ouch!

I sense my doctoral supervisors cringe at the very idea of according Wikipedia articles the status of knowledge… But, and it is a big BUT! …we are talking fiction here, and who gives a darn about the status of knowledge in fiction?

All knowledge – I have commented before – starts in life as fiction. It takes a process of communication and understanding (often coupled with demonstration) for a group of people (call it a society, if you like) to come to know something as knowledge.

So, someone writes something (not quite true – shall we say) in Wikipedia; some budding novelist picks up on the idea and works it into a crime novel (perhaps); some Holywood/Bollywood producer turns the novel into a film and it is seen by millions, including a budding criminal who thinks the “idea” is perfect for his (or her) next crime caper! And he (or she!) enacts the idea to commit the crime of the century. What was fiction has become truth! And a factual article is written about the “real” crime! Fiction becomes fact!

Anyway, again I digress. Greg has covered Wikipedia. :)

Keyser, who?

[caption id="attachment_2815" align="alignright" width="137" caption="What's in a name?"][/caption]

It is not until the end of the film, The Usual Suspects that we realize the narrative that Kevin Spacey has been spinning to the detectives has been based on simple “real” things that he has observed around him: the “strung-together” details taken from an office notice board, and the KOBAYASHI logo on the bottom of a coffee cup!

Imagine yourself, Roger "Verbal" Kint, famous author! You are sat there – no interrogators this time – but the pressure is on! You have your computer on and a blank page to fill. At this point you have an idea, but no details. The idea? A crime!

The greatest on-line resource I have found is the world-wide-web itself! Why stop at dictionaries? Why limit yourself to a certain thesaurus? Why stop at Wikipedia or Google. The same phrase entered into Google and Ask and Yahoo and… well, whatever… the same phrase will often return different results! Go on, be brave, pick and chose! Start stringing things together! This is where the fun starts… be your own Verbal reasoner.

The internet (I would argue!) is the definitive resource. All the other tools are just windows on the mass of data. We chose a window to look out of, just as we might pick a favourite window to look out of a house onto the yard outside. But we sometimes forget there are other windows. Our views become restrained, we forget that when the light moves, the view changes.

As a writer, I am thankful for all those people in the world out there who have given me so much material to pick and mix from. In River of Judgement, I wanted a board of directors as characters in my plot… Do you realize how many companies, world-wide, post brief bios of their directors? No?

[caption id="attachment_2813" align="alignleft" width="143" caption="Clearly not "usual" anymore!"][/caption]

So many, in fact, that when you string things together, add new names, new locations, plot ideas etc, fact becomes embedded in new fiction and nobody is any the wiser.

Fact becomes fiction!

One might wonder where other characters in my writing come from? Well, keep wondering. That might be the subject of another post!

Happy reading and writing, y’all! :)

Internet Writers Resources - free for the taking!

(or confessions of a cheap writer)



by George Allwynn

As a writer, I have to make every penny count. I pinch it so tightly, I make Abe squeal like a little girl. That action gets plenty of stares from people, and an occasional slap from a blue haired granny at the checkout lane.

But, I digress.

I'm sure the other writers, all more culturally refined than I, will share with you a bounty chest full of brilliant writer programs and a treasure trove of state-of-the-art resources, the creme-de-la-creme of the latest and greatest writers gadgets, guaranttee to click the heel of your ruby slippers together!

However, my jewels don't sparkle that way. Simplicity and functionality is the name of my game.  My favorite writers resources have less than current published dates. Nor are their websites exciting and fresh. No bells, no whistles.

In my quest to be thrifty, I have trodden many and diverse Internet paths. Not an easy feat, as I am somewhat of a tech moron when it comes to computers. A lot of trial and error on my part (heavy on the error.)  Needless to say, I am still perfecting my computer savvy.

During my googling journeys, however, I've stumbled upon the wonderful world of freeware and open source.

Freeware is free, copyrighted software which is made available gratis/free of charge. Typically, freeware is proprietary; distributed without source code. It usually carries a license that permits redistribution but may have other restrictions, such as limitations on its commercial use. Although users may download it at no cost, the copyright keeps the software from being used in any way not expressly approved by its author.

Open Source is software that can be used, redistributed or rewritten free of charge; it's usually created by volunteers. Often referred to as a movement, open source software (or other content) is publicly shared intellectual property. They come with no warranty but are usually very well tested by development groups.

Once I find what I am looking for, I normally go straight to the creator’s web site to download. However, there are reliable web sites that specialize in localizing both freeware and open source. These usually have anti-virus programs that 'wash' the download as it is coming to you.  (I have been downloading freeware and open source for three years now, and have never had a problem.)  NOTE: Because so many people use these programs, other companies have been sneaking in under these titles with their try-then-buy policies. Please read through the information. Free is free (although some will ask for a donation to keep it free on the net.) This is different than a limited trial period, during which they will bug you to buy the full version.

Here are three of the many free programs I use and absolutely adore.

1. Writing Programs -

yWriter

Don't dismiss this program because of the lack of beauty.  It is a functional tool, worthy to have on your computer.

What is yWriter?  It's a word processor created by a writer for writers.  It breaks your novel into chapters and scenes. It will not write your novel for you, suggest plot ideas or perform creative tasks of any kind. It does help you keep track of your work, leaving your mind free to create.  Although yWriter was designed for novels, enterprising users have created their own translation files to customize the program to work with plays, non-fiction and even sermons.

Features include: Organize your novel using a 'project,' adding chapters, scenes, characters, items and locations, display the word count for every file in the project, along with a total, progress tracking, automatic back-ups, multiple scenes, viewpoint character, goal, conflict and outcome fields for each scene story board view, a visual layout of your work, able to re-order scenes within chapters, drag and drop of chapters, scenes, characters, items and locations, automatic daily zip of the entire project, and text-to-speech built into the text editor.

Another free writers program is StoryBook. I've worked nicely on this one as well (in fact, I have StoryBook on one computer, and yWriter on the other).  This program, a tad more colorful than yWriter, will upgrade for a 10 dollar donation. Don't feel you have to. Yet, once you start working on it, you might find yourself inclined to say 'thank-you' with a donation toward their website expenses.

2. Distraction Programs -

Q10

Q10 is a dark, full screen generator.  Why would a writer want this as a resource?  Well, if any of you have ADHD or OCD (or have any attention disorders, no matter how small) this little baby will help you, big time!  This is also great for Nanowrimo warriors, word wars, and timed writing jaunts.

How?  By allowing you to focus on your work, and ONLY your work!  It darkens your whole screen so all you can see is the contrasting color text you type.  It has word, page and character counts that are updated live as you type.  Also included is the customizable look and paragraph format, change the colors, line spacing, first line indent, paragraph spacing, font, a timer, spell checker, auto saving, --- and this is SOOOO cool, it has a typing sound effect (you know, for us archaic writers who miss the hypnotizing sound of the clickity-click-click the old typewriters used to sing to us...)

Other free, dark screen programs include Write Room or Dark Room

3.  Text to Speech programs -



Panopreter

It is always good to check the flow of your stories by reading your works out loud. Even better if you can have someone else read it out loud while you relax and let it sink in.  If you don't have the luxury of waking up your mate at 3am for instant gratification of the novel kind, text to speech programs fit the bill. In fact, once you get situated with one, you'll wonder how you managed without it.

If you don't use the one hidden in your Microsoft program (or you don't use Microsoft), try either the Panopreter program (address above), Alien Speech or Speak Out .  These all do basically the same thing (read your text aloud) - but some people prefer different 'voices' (I for one, am totally in love with the British voice of Peter. He reads ALL of my stories to me!)  Some computer voices are better than others, and, of course, some of them let you choose between male and female.  Once again, these programs are free to use.

Beside the freeware and open source programs, I also take advantage of web sites pandering to the needs of writers, especially those sites which have many of their resources for free.  I highly recommend two (although expect to lose track of all the hours of fun you'll have exploring the sites)

4. Generator Blog -

This website has a plethora of generators - anything you can think of!  I use them during writers block as, sometimes, all I need is a well worded sentence or a kick in the butt to get me out of my funk and on my way to story land.  Some of the ones I have found here are http://www.seventhsanctum.com/ (a whole mess of generators for nearly any genre), http://bookblog.net/gender/genie.php (I use this to make sure my female characters sound like females, as I have a terrible time writing women), and http://www.fakenamegenerator.com/ (always handy when a telephone book isn't around).

5. Writing Links -

Too numerous to go into detail, you'll want to bookmark this sweet thing! An up-to-date, awesome website filled with all sorts of writing resources, some of them freeware and open source programs to get you started.

So, there you are. The top five items (plus a few bonus alternatives) I use in my arsenal of writing weapons. I encourage you to investigate these offerings on your own because, in these economically depressed times, it doesn't take living on a writer’s income to see the wisdom in taking advantage of all the good, free things the Internet offers to us writers.

With all that said, I just wish someone would invent a program granting a few extra hours per day. Imagine the word count I could accomplish!