#Excerpt from Charlotte Dent by @MorganRichter #Women #ChickLit #GoodReads

This end of the hall was quiet. Dale’s and Ken’s office doors were open, their computer screens dark. Out to lunch, probably, maybe somewhere in nearby Beverly Hills where they could linger over porterhouse steaks and pommes frites while discussing cases.

Marti popped her head into Dale’s office. “The guys go to lunch already?”

“I think so. I didn’t see them leave,” Charlotte said.

“Damn them. I told them I’d be done by one.” Marti frowned. “Is the conference room cleaned up?”

“Yes. Do you need anything else, or can I take my lunch now?”

“Go ahead,” Marti said. She looked tired and irritated. At moments like this, when Marti seemed human, it was easy to feel bad for her. It couldn’t be easy, viewing each day as an endless series of minute negotiations, analyzing every action for possible slights. Charlotte did plenty of that herself, and she was an amateur compared to Marti. “Dan just called and said he’s on his way in, so you won’t need to cover my phone this afternoon.”

She laughed, a thin, uneven sound unsupported by genuine feeling. She leaned against the small stretch of wall between Dale’s and Ken’s offices and folded her arms across her chest. With mild horror, Charlotte realized she was settling in for a chat. Girl talk. “He took the morning off for an audition. I knew I shouldn’t have hired an actor.”

“Did he say what the audition was for?” Good for Dan. She’d grill him about it later.

Marti examined the nails of one hand. “I don’t know. A car commercial or something. He said it didn’t go well.”

“That’s too bad,” Charlotte said. A car commercial meant a big national campaign. The auditions were hard to come by, and the competition was always stiff, but landing one could’ve changed Dan’s life.

“I’m sure his parents appreciate shelling out money for acting classes so he can star in commercials.” Marti smiled, the thin bones of her face standing out tight. “I’m glad you’re not into any of that business, Charlotte. You’ve got more sense than Dan.”

Charlotte was still for a moment. Her skin was too thin today. Marti wasn’t being snide. She didn’t know. Marti never paid attention to her life outside the office, and why on earth should she?

It wasn’t worth explaining. Charlotte smiled, noncommittal, and waited for Marti to head back to her own office. She left the letter she’d typed for Dale on his desk so he could sign it upon his return.

A flicker of movement at the window made her pause. She looked closer.

A bird was on the windowsill, a pigeon. Unusual to see one this high up. She approached the glass.

The pigeon seemed to register her movements on the other side of the window. Its head bobbed from side to side in bursts of frenetic motion. She could see the details of its feathers and the bright glint of its beadlike eyes.

It bobbed up and down, scooted a bit to the side on the thin windowsill. Careful not to startle it, she moved closer. She placed her palm against the glass just opposite it.

It could see her, and it wasn’t afraid. It seemed to be trying to get inside, confounded by the illusion of the window. It hopped to the side and teetered. She stayed very still.

The pigeon hopped backward off the ledge and disappeared from sight. She glanced down to see if it had taken flight, but saw nothing. Maybe it was flying, swooping through the air, its brain no longer clinging to what had been its most important goal moments earlier.

Looking straight down from this height gave her vertigo, even with her forehead pressed against the thick glass and her hands braced against the sill. She left the office and went to lunch.

When struggling actress Charlotte Dent is cast as a leggy killer robot in a big, brainless summer blockbuster, the subsequent hiccup of fame sends a shock wave through her life. The perks of entry-level celebrity are balanced by the drawbacks: destructive filmmakers, online ridicule, entitled costars, and an awkward, unsatisfying relationship with the film’s fragile leading man. Self-aware to a fault, Charlotte fights to carve out a unique identity in an industry determined to categorize her as just another starlet, disposable and replaceable. But unless she can find a way to turn her small burst of good fortune into a durable career, she’s destined to sink back into obscurity.

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Genre - General Fiction, Chick Lit

Rating - PG

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Layce Boswell – Beware the Procrastination Demons @markdmajor

Beware the Procrastination Demons by Layce Boswell

Procrastination is something that anyone battles with, even when certain tasks are enjoyable, and it is easy to fall prey to some of the procrastination demons. To avoid some of these demons, it is necessary to look at what they are as well as where they originate from in order to stay on task while working on projects. By identifying these demons, one’s workflow can be steady and remain productive throughout the work day.

One feeding force of procrastination , and laziness in general, is fear. Things such as fear of failure, ridicule, incompetence, and even fear of a seemingly never-ending task can cause any individual to seek outlets that avoid facing these subconscious fears. In order to work through these fears, one must identify them and then choose to work despite these fears. Although facing these fears can seem discouraging, choosing to see past the fears and focus on positive outcomes can help an individual focus on the steps that need to be done in order for success to be achieved.

Another component of procrastination stems from the very environment one chooses to work; with recent technology, and infinite knowledge and stimulation at everyone’s fingertips, staying focused on any one thing has proven to be difficult. However, to evade these situations of diversion, an individual can work in environments that inspire and cultivate production as opposed to distraction.

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Genre – Juvenile Fiction/Bedtime and Dreams

Rating – G

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#Excerpt from The House by Sebastiana Randone @sebasti29567440 #Romance #Historical

ONCE UPON OUR time, there existed an abundant, sagacious old wood, where misshapen time gambolled capriciously within the hidden furrows of memory.

In the distance of this abundant wood roamed a young woman, whose disheveled state painted a dramatic image of distress.  For the torn black silky night gown that hung precariously on her slight frame, told immediately, that this excursion was not deliberate in nature.

As she continued on a pathway, that to a willing visitor would have delighted, her confusion was made evident by erratic movement. With dark probing eyes darting to and fro upon the foreign landscape, she held onto her arms tightly as coarse scrub scratched against her weary body.

A plethora of wispy ferns surrounded the path, the gossamer foliage of which glistened through cylindrical shafts of light. But with shadows in pursuit, the busy wood sang in a cacophony of scurrying birds, warning of night’s entrance. Gazing up, she saw a remote and distant sky, the blue horizon so unfathomable, that it could have been a faraway sea.

Thus resignedly, with legs heavily fatigued, she sallied forth, like a somnambulist along an unchartered route. With only time, illusive as the mist of a fleeting lover, by her side.

From afar, suddenly a figure appeared. The desire for illumination prompted the desperate woman to cry out, but her voice would not travel. Again she tried and again, but to no avail. It was as if she was trapped within a nightmare, where fear itself had intervened and stymied all chance for salvation.
Jumping up and down, frantically waving her arms about, she attempted to attract the young man’s attention, only to fail, for he continued in the opposite direction. While a mass of thorny, impenetrable scrub prevented her from following him. So helpless she remained, observing the surreal character drift along.

Appareled in historical costume from a period long gone, and resembling a character from a Georgian novel, he wore a bright burgundy velvet coat, the colour of which was intensified by a contrasting pearly satin brocaded waistcoat. With a cravat wrapped up to the chin, tight cream britches, and black riding boots, he radiated a physical beauty that defied gender. Tall and svelte, his fair long hair framed eyes that emulated a clear blue sky.

But completely oblivious to her pleas, he continued on, with his concentrated focus, much to the desperate woman’s chagrin, looking forward.

Shaking her head in silent despair, breathlessly she watched on, as the ethereal figure floated further, and further away, until disappearing completely into the arcane forest.

The House is an adult fairy tale rich in mystery and intrigue.

Here is a tale of a woman so absorbed with historical novels that her own reality ceases to offer any hope of romance and beauty.

Until one day this dreamy idealist finds herself in a mysterious forest. How she arrived there is unknown. Soon she encounters a dilapidated house, within whose ancient walls magical rooms that transport to parallel worlds lie in wait.  There she is transmigrated to 18th century England, where our heroine interacts with an odd mix of characters whose dysfunctional lives become immediately apparent.

Her first tribulation involves a nefarious lord, an archetype of the monstrous characters one encounters in fairy tales. The ramification from this confrontation sets the tone for the narrative.

A magic portal finally enables escape from the austere Georgian dwelling. She is then spirited back to the enigmatic house, and a journey to Regency London follows, where a large cast of eccentric identities present themselves.

Late one night, following a long stay in Florence, a young, heart-broken poet arrives. His introduction to the beautiful time traveller offers promise of restoration and love. But there are several more obstacles ahead before her destiny in this curious adventure is made apparent.

In the end an unexpected twist is revealed. But like all good fairy tales, this surprising conclusion is pleasing, even though the means of getting there are dark, and at times sinister.

Buy Now @ Amazon & Createspace

Genre - Historical, Fantasy, Romance

Rating - PG-16

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The Colors of Friendship by K. R. Raye @KRRaye

Fortuitous Bumps 3

Melody checked her watch and then she did a sharp double-take.  How had four hours slipped past so quickly?  She couldn’t believe how fast she and Kevin had broken the ice.  They connected at once and talked, really talked, about everything: classes, parents, friends, dreams, and fears.  She felt a twinge of anxiety at the thought of their easy, refreshing evening coming to an end.  However, with the lateness of the hour she knew Imani would be worried.  “Oh my God, I need to get home before my roommate summons a search party.”

Kevin glanced at his watch.  “It’s 2:20?  Wow, I can’t believe you seduced me like that!”

“Yeah, right, you were definitely the one seducing me, making me lose track of time.”  She placed one hand over her chest and held the other by her head pretending to faint.  With her best Southern drawl she pronounced, “I was totally enraptured by your charm and captivated by your charisma, kind Sir.”

“Oh brother!”  Kevin laughed.  “Could you have been any further over the top?”  He stood, assisted Melody with her shoes and coat, threw on his jacket, and grabbed his books.  “Well, seeing as I’m such a gentleman, I have no choice but to walk you home, Little Lady.”

“Thank you, fine Sir.”  Melody accepted Kevin’s hand and he helped her downstairs.

They strolled out of the Union arm in arm into the cool, crisp night.  Neither talked, but instead smiled at each other from time to time.  The bright moon guided their steps along the path and Melody swore the stars winked down on them.  They arrived at her dorm room far too soon.  Reluctantly she released Kevin’s arm to wish him a good night.

Before she could say a word, he swooped in close.  Their noses almost touched and she could feel his breath tickle the fine little hairs above her lip.  He leaned down so their foreheads touched and he placed a protective arm around her shoulders.  “I know I’m being too forward, but I’ve told you more about myself tonight, than any ten friends know combined.  You sparked something in me when you knocked me down.  And I would be a little annoyed if you didn’t share these intense feelings—the ones consuming me now.”

Transfixed, Melody stood motionless at a loss for words.  Never before had she kissed a guy she just met, but she felt it inevitable.  Her heart leapt in her chest and the anticipation killed.

Kevin took her silence as acquiescence and teased her anxious lips with his soft kisses.  She couldn’t believe how magical the moment felt.  Her tongue willingly probed and parted his lips and then did a hesitant, searching dance with his minty tongue.  Her heart couldn’t stand much more and she pushed back, shocked that her lips were reluctant to follow.  She glanced at Kevin for a fleeting moment and rushed inside, closing the door behind her, not slowing until she had raced up the two flights to her room.  Only then, did she trust herself enough to stop.

Kevin probably thought she was a fool for running off leaving him standing there.  But sudden urges had overtaken her when they kissed and she wasn’t sure she could have stopped herself if she hadn’t left then and there.  What on earth was wrong with her?  This felt wonderful yet scary.  A guy had never affected her like this.  Deep inside, she couldn’t wait for more.  “Oh my, God, you’re such a harlot,” she mumbled to herself.  Taking a deep breath she unlocked the door and prayed Imani was asleep.

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre – New Adult, Contemporary

Rating – R

More details about the author

Connect with K R Raye on Facebook and Twitter

Website http://krraye.com/events.html

 

 

Quality Reads UK Book Club Disclosure: Author interview / guest post has been submitted by the author and previously used on other sites.

Guest #Author Sarah Krisch Reveals 10 Secrets About Herself -- #Romance #Fiction

1. I am a mother of three boys.  They keep me very busy with their myriad of activities!
2. My full-time job is a manager in a large corporation, where I am constantly challenged to be a better leader.  I am very fortunate to work with such a great team of people.
3. My husband is a full-time writer, Glen Krisch.  He writes horror and supernatural thrillers, which is quite a departure from my light-hearted romance.
4. We have a major case of role-reversal in my home.  My husband works from home full-time, while I work outside of the home.  I am very lucky to have his support in pursuit of my business career, as well as my fledgling writing career.
5. I am a vegetarian, and have been for more than 20 years.  It’s definitely not for everyone.  One of our kids claims to be a vegetarian, aside from the occasional corn dog.  Another would chase a cow across a field with a knife and fork.
6. My dream vacation always includes a quiet beach.
7. I love to craft.  I enjoy sewing, knitting, and painting.  Our middle son tells me he is going to be an artist when he grows up, so now that I have a partner in crime, I can shamelessly spend money on fabric, paint and whatever else strikes our fancy.
8. My favorite way to relax is with a cup of tea and my Kindle.
9. My favorite memories always include my siblings.  We have such fun together.  In a few weeks, some of us are going on a research trip to a ghost town for Glen’s next horror novel.
10. I enjoy the outdoors.  I love to hike in the local canyons, view the waterfalls, and spot the wildlife.

A failed actress, twenty-something Julia McCarthy begins writing a fictionalized blog as a form of self-therapy. Based on her carefree summers at her grandparents' farm, she never expects her little experiment to garner a viral following, but it does. Boy, does it ever.

Now, with thousands of loyal blog followers, and a syndication deal with the Chicago Herald, Julia is approached by GreenTV to adapt her blog into a TV show. The producers see her as a "Rachel Ray on the Prairie-type". She sees herself as a fraud.

In Julia's fictional world, she's successful. She can pay her bills on time. Heck, she even has a fictional gorgeous husband and charming little boy. Ready to realize her dreams, Julia returns to her grandparents' farm to shoot the TV pilot.

Brad Taylor is definitely not her type: he’s rugged, sensible, and oh-so smug about learning that Julia’s blog is a farce. As the manager of her grandparent’s farm, Brad doesn’t have time to deal with whimsical women who don’t even know how to cook.

Julia can't allow her attraction to Brad to distract her, not when her dreams are about to come true. But are these truly her dreams, her good life?

A fun, fast (150 pages) contemporary romance

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Genre – Contemporary Romance

Rating – PG-13

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Writing Ideas - H. Peter Alesso

Thank you for allowing me to discuss some of my ideas about writing in relationship to my book, Midshipman Henry Gallant In Space.
I love words.
That wasn’t always been the case. My first infatuation was with numbers, in all its manifold forms from algebra to topology. However, with maturity came insight into the elegance and efficacy of words for expression beyond algorithms.
Words elucidate the ideas of great thinkers and leaders from Aristotle to Lincoln.  Consider the brief collage, “All men are created equal?” Can you doubt the inspiration of these words? Words shroud us with the emotions of others and bring nature’s kaleidoscopic scenery into view. They let us share experiences both past and present.
Our past is a tapestry, rich with dramatic experiences. Our thoughts and memories are arranged around such experiences. As memories bring the past flowing into the present, we gather words into stories that capture the drama and excitement of real and imaginary events. As such, they help us understand our place in the world.
In 1949, Joseph Campbell wrote The Hero with a Thousand Faces, and argued that myths, spanning all time and all cultures, contain the same basic elements, or ‘archetypes.’
Campbell thought that stories formed a grand pattern he called the ‘hero’s journey.’ The journey begins with the hero hearing a plea for help. When he finally responds, he crosses a threshold into a new realm where he faces great challenges and matures under the tutelage of a mentor. Finally, he becomes the master; committed to changing the world. This story archetype has thrived from the Odyssey, to Star Wars.
The ‘hero’s journey’ is a theater of human behavior; anecdotal but illuminating. In Midshipman Henry Gallant, I present a young man’s heroic journey. He doesn’t travel it along. He has friends, mentors, rivals, and enemies, and one more essential element, romance.
There is beauty in expressing your thoughts. Find your words. Tell your story.
Regards,
H. Peter Alesso
www.hpeteralesso.com

Buy Now @ Amazon and Smashwords

Genre – Science Fiction

Rating – G

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Connect with H. Peter Alesso on Facebook

Website http://www.hpeteralesso.com/Default.aspx

Quality Reads UK Book Club Disclosure: Author interview / guest post has been submitted by the author and previously used on other sites.

Born of Oak and Silver (The Caradoc Chronicles) by @Marie_McKean #Fantasy #Horror #TBR

The day of my fifth birthday dawned, and to my disappointment, was not marked by anything spectacular. I spent the morning completing my chores with my mother, and then by helping my father in his shop with anything he could find to occupy me. Lunch came and went, and still there was no sign of Bram.

I left the house in hopes of finding something that would allow the rest of the afternoon to pass with ease—hopefully relatively free from boredom. Aimlessly, I took the path that rounded the corner of my father’s shop. I hadn’t gone more than a few steps when, suddenly, an idea stopped me in my tracks. I knew exactly what I was going to do. I turned on the spot and ran as quickly as I could into my father’s shop. Inside, I found him bent over, meticulously carving a door.

“Papa! Do you have a fishing pole?!” I startled him with my unexpected outburst. Luckily, not enough to cause the sharp wood chisel he held to mar the wood’s face. He looked at me, both relief and the slightest hint of annoyance showing on his face.

“Yes, I do. You’ll find it back there somewhere,” He used his thumb to indicate the haphazard collection my parents stored in a back corner of the barn.

He watched me as I zestily climbed on and over trunks, barrels, and crates, searching wildly for anything that resembled a pole. Finally I found it, wedged between two trunks and under a crate. Seeing that I was unable to pry it loose myself, my father silently stepped up and moved things out of the way so that I could lift it out of the mess myself.

In a moment of triumph, I raised the pole over my head and relished my triumph, “Yes!”

My father snorted back his laughter. “Let me look it over, son, just to make sure that it will work properly.”

I handed my new treasure reverently over to him. After climbing down from the mountain I had just ascended, I followed him over to his workbench.

He had it laid on the table before him, inspecting the line and the hook. He then picked it up and tested its flex before turning back to me with a look of fondness. “Happy birthday, Daine! Your mother’s going to be very disappointed when she finds out about this. She wanted to give it to you tonight at dinner. But, I don’t see any reason why you shouldn’t be able to use it on your actual birthday.” He handed it over to me tenderly and rumpled my hair.

“Thank you, Papa!” I exclaimed, throwing my arms around his legs for the tightest hug I could manage.

“You’re more than welcome, son,” he said while looking down at me, my arms still locked around him.

“Now, if you give me an hour to finish carving that door, I’ll come out with you. Maybe you could even show me how it’s done.”

I pulled back from him, dejected. How would I ever survive having to wait a whole hour? I thought miserably.

My father must have seen my despair because he quickly amended, “Or, you could go now and I’ll catch up to you when I’m finished . . .”

I nodded, smiling in favor of this option.

He chuckled, “Just go down by the stream in the back, okay?”

I nodded so enthusiastically that my neck hurt.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” my father asked. He leaned back against his workbench and folded his arms over his chest expectantly.

Needing no further encouragement, I was instantly out of his shop and running toward the stream. Behind me I could hear my father’s gentle, amused snigger sounding from inside the barn.

The wind rushed through my hair as I sprinted toward the stream. My bare feet seemed to barely even touch the ground. The stream was not far from our house, but to a five year old with a new fishing pole, it was absolutely too far. However, that day the wind seemed to lift and carry me, and I ran there faster than I ever had before.

I looked over the river, making a keen inspection of all its ripples and currents. I found a spot where the water seemed to gently pool before moving on, and decided that it would be the perfect place to try out my new pole.

I kissed its wooden handle lovingly and looked carefully over the line, as I’d just seen my father do, and then down to where the simple hook hung weightlessly dangling on the line.

The hook! I almost forgot.

I didn’t have any of Bram’s fancy flies, but I could find something that would work just as well. I propped my pole up against the closest tree, and began to search for a stone that I could overturn. Finding one, I crouched down and moved it easily. I peered into the impression eagerly, hoping to find something that could be used to lure a fish.

Vaguely, the same tickling sensation I’d last had when fishing with Bram started to grow. It diverted my attention away from the rock’s hollow. I looked up and excitedly searched the woodland for Bram.

He was not here.

However, the air continued to administer its glistening, genial caresses.

I was at a loss to explain it, so I shrugged it off, and went back to looking for the perfect piece of bait. In my moment of distraction, everything that I might have used had managed to disappear. Stupid, I thought to myself as I moved over to another rock that was not too far away. I overturned it, and found that there was nothing there either.

“Damn,” I murmured aloud.

Guiltily, I checked around me to make sure my mother had not heard me. There was nothing to be seen but the trees, river, rocks, and grass. I blew out a sigh of relief and stood to look for another rock.

I spotted one, closer to the water this time. This one was stuck good. I tried to twist the rock and loosen it from the mud, but found it was impossible to do while standing. I kneeled in the riverbank, my toes digging into the silt as I worried the rock back and forth, back and forth. I worked until my arms were sore, but the rock just wouldn’t budge.

Sitting back on my heels, I wiped my muddied hand across my forehead. Something in the air changed. Throughout my entire search the air had shimmered with an affectionate tingle, but now the tingling had become more of a smoldering sting. It didn’t burn, and it didn’t hurt, but it felt like a direct rebuff against my skin.

I looked around again, this time with suspicion. There was still no one else but me.

But, the eyes can deceive, and I couldn’t shake the feeling of being intently watched.

YOU CANNOT CHANGE THE LIFE YOU’VE BEEN GIVEN.

All that you can do is make the most of what you’ve been dealt—fight a good fight, resist being beaten by circumstance, and hope that somehow, despite it all, you’re able to accomplish the impossible.

But even then you cannot change the fact that you were born cursed.

I am one of those unlucky few upon whom the Curse of the Four Fathers has fallen.

It is I who must bear the burden of having a life that is unchangeably intertwined with the Fae. A sorrow made all the more great by knowing that where they are tragedy, loss, misery, and despair most assuredly follow.

As a Druid it is my responsibility to uphold the boundaries that keep the worlds of the Tylwyth Teg, and our own, separate. As a man it is my only ambition to protect the family and woman I so desperately love.

The only problem: I’m not sure this curse will allow for me to do both.

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre - Paranormal Fantasy, Horror

Rating – PG-13

More details about the author

 Connect with Marie McKean on Twitter

Website https://www.mariemckean.com

Helpful Guidelines to Help Fight #Writer's Block by Holy Ghost Writer @SultanofSalem #WriteTip

10 Tips to Becoming a Better Writer

Most writers or would be writers fall short on various downfalls of trying to become a better writer. These helpful guidelines and tips would help you fight off your writer’s block and continue on to becoming a much better writer.

1. Write.

Most would think it’s a cliché but this is where writer’s block starts. Most writers just are full of thinking that they forget about writing. Just… write and everything follows.

2. Read.

A writer can only be a good writer if he accepts his weakness that he only knows so much about everything. If a writer is fond of reading, then he will have lots of ideas and topics to write on. A successful writer is never arrogant of his knowledge. In fact, he hungers for more.

3. Love your drafts.

The best books ever written in history had ugly and erroneous drafts. Don’t be discouraged of them. It is just your blueprint to refining your article.

4. Forget about word count. Deal with them later.

You will lose your writer’s inspiration if you start by getting all too technical. Forget about it being a 1000 word article, just create your story and deal with it later if your story will be a novel or just a short story.

5. Go deeper.

If at the end of the day, you just end up with a 2 page short story and you think it’s not spicy or catchy enough. Then, dig deeper. Let your imagination run this time.

6. Purge out your ugly writing.

Most writers start out poor on their words. This is good. It’s like turning on a water hose and the first thing that would come out is dirty water. So, let those “dirty water” words come out first and purge them all out.

7. Corroborate your writing.

If you plan to make a story, everything must have a cohesive plot and should not have any vagueness, even in its slightest tone.

8. Let it flow.

Once you have made a steady and solid flow of plot for writing, and then just let all your writing juices flow.

9. Commit to writing.

Once it flows, make sure it you reach the end of that story. Middle writers can be a disappointment.

10. Start with it’s a story of someone who does something. And write from there.

If you just don’t know where to start, start with a story about someone who does something.

The Sovereign Order of Monte Cristo is a continuation of The Count of Monte Cristo (Book I), related through the voice of Sherlock Holmes and The Sultan of Monte Cristo (Book II). It includes exhilarating new adventures, characters, and ideas, carrying the reader past book I and II and into book III of an ever-expanding new series based on the classic.

Those who have already had the pleasure of reading The Sultan of Monte Cristo will certainly appreciate the unique way in which the Holy Ghost Writer has expanded the original story without the help of anyone (except perhaps from the ghosts of Dumas and Doyle).

In addition to comprising a 3rd sequel to The Count of Monte Cristo, The Sovereign Order of Monte Cristo serves as a prequel to The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes.

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre – Action, Adventure

Rating – PG-15

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Website http://holyghostwriterbooks.blogspot.ca/

Finding Your Voice – Christoph Paul @christophPaul_

Finding Your Voice

I think the whole idea of voice is a bunch of MFA-mumbo jumbo. I am going to paraphrase and agree with the writer Anis Shivani and say it is all about style and that the ‘voice’ is something a singer needs to work on not a writer.

A writer, through trial and error figures out what style suits them best. Moshin Hamid (who you philistines need to be reading–he wrote the best book of 2013) uses second person and it serves him well. It is his style. Could he write third or first person? Yes, he is pretty talented but second person is the style that serves him and his stories best.

Myself, my favorite style is first person, that is my comfort zone but for my latest book “Great White House” I had to write in third person. Stylistically it was tough. In first person I can be clever, I can be loose I can let my character do some of the heavy lifting to move the story, but when writing in third person I’m serving a story and a multitude of characters. I have to get out the way; I can’t use wit or anything else in third person, I just have to serve the story. I use a simple prose style that puts the story front and center.

There are different types of styles, I will go back to the dead white guys club to show the two different styles: Hemingway and Faulkner. Now, I will say you really have to have your craft right to do Faulkner who writes long stream of consciousness of sentences. I also think of Proust. Some people can do that but for me I just don’t have the talent for that stylish ability. I fall under the minimalist style like Hemingway when writing in third person.

If I feel the concept/premise is the strongest and it has multiple characters, whether I want to or not I need to write in third person. I go with the philosophy: get the hell out of the way and write simply and clearly (I don’t use adverbs, but in blogging, no big deal.) That is my ‘voice’ so to speak. I’m not going to impress you with my poetic language, but I can tell a tight story and use ‘dialogue’ a strength of mine to move and serve the story.

Eventually, it would good to be in place where you have mastered all styles, where you just have one big literary tool box at your disposal and can pick what best serves the story you want to tell, but until then it is best to stick to your strengths.

I have a literary novel in the well that needs third person poetic language; I’ll tell that story one day when I’m a better writer and have more comfort in that style. Until then, I will keep it short and sweet.

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre – Fiction, Humor

Rating – PG-13

More details about the author and the book

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Quality Reads UK Book Club Disclosure: Author interview / guest post has been submitted by the author and previously used on other sites.

@DeanFWilson on Why Writing is a Form of Personal Therapy #AmWriting #Fantasy #WriteTip

As a form of self-expression, writing is naturally a therapeutic medium, in much the same way recovering alcoholics might be encouraged to take up art to help them work through their issues. Writing, by its very nature, helps get whatever is in the mind, potentially eating away at the psyche, out onto the page, where it can be dealt with, even if how it is addressed ends up being a purely “fictional” exercise.

“A problem shared is a problem halved,” as the old saying goes, and while writing is typically a solitary art, the sheer act of putting one's thoughts down on paper can go a long way to limiting some of the potential emotional turmoil in our lives. This is often the reason why people keep journals of their everyday events, as it helps them process and deal with whatever might be frustrating them.

Of course, a writer generally does not actively sit down to write about their problems, but anything that is eating them up inside may find itself expressed in words, even if the issue itself is deep-rooted and not even recognised by the author. Likewise, people who keep diaries often don't take up the pen as a form of therapy, but the end result can be extremely therapeutic.

An author has a distinct advantage when dealing with characters in a book, because he or she can live the characters' lives vicariously, experiencing their ups and downs while still being able to step away at the end of the day and not become so emotionally attached that it becomes a problem (though obviously this differs from author to author). This allows an author to gain insight into a potentially harrowing experience without having to go through it directly, while those authors who have had painful experiences can begin or speed up the healing process by addressing the issues in what is, or at least feels like, a safer environment: the realm of fiction.

The same can be said for readers, as they equally get to experience the lives of others from a safe distance. They might be able to feel the love, anger, joy, hurt, or pain of a character, which can tap into their own empathy, or perhaps their own issues, and yet they can close the book and step away from that world, giving a kind of safety mechanism for working through problems.

We like to think of people as having one personality, but the reality is often much different. Who we are to our spouse is very different to who we are to our boss, our friends, or our kids. We act differently to a parent than we do to a peer, sharing a different facet of our personality. In many ways the characters of a novel could be seen to be the many facets of an author's personality, or at least how the author views certain people or issues, as a character in a book can never be crafted without it coming through the prism of the author's mind. Thus each character and what they go through can give greater insight into an issue, or perhaps work through it on a subtler, perhaps subconscious, level.

I will finish with a quote from F. Scott Fitzgerald, author of The Great Gatsby, which helps highlight not only the multi-faceted nature of authors, but of human beings in general, and how the written word is such a powerful way to actively engage with, communicate with, and showcase these aspects, that they might, in some manner, be addressed.

“Writers aren't exactly people ... they're a whole bunch of people trying to be one person.”

THE DYING BREATH. THE DYING WILL. THE DYING HOPE.

After the catastrophe of the Call of Agon, Ifferon and his companions find themselves in the unenviable situation of witnessing, and partaking in, the death of another god—this time Corrias, the ruler of the Overworld.

With Corrias locked inside the corpse of the boy Théos, he suffers a fate worse than the bonds of the Beast Agon. Yet hope is kindled when the company find a way to restore the boy, and possibly the god, back to life.

The road to rebirth has many pitfalls, and there are some who consider such meddling with the afterlife a grave risk. The prize might be life anew—but the price might also be a second death.

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Genre - Epic Fantasy

Rating – PG

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