Val Muller

The Electronic Wordsmith

Spot Writers: Water Haven

July 4, 2013 No comments

This week’s post comes to us from Cathy MacKenzie, who writes mainly short stories and poems. The theme for this month is “water.” Cathy hopes you enjoy her story!

Cathy’s new book, compiling 18 of her best and most recent short stories, titled Between These Pages, is now out on Amazon.

Print version is $10.

E-book is $2.99.

Check out Cathy’s blog at: http://writingwicket.wordpress.com/

 

Water Haven

I dip my manicured toes into the heated pool. Cold, even though the temperature of the water is set at eighty degrees. Despite being summer, there’s a brisk breeze.

I have one month left.

My daughter’s wedding is five weeks away. I’ve let myself go the past several months, and I’m determined to get in shape before her big day.

I’ve had too much wine. I don’t need anyone—not that “anyone” is here with me—to remind me of that, but I must finish those last twenty laps. Just twenty more. That will bring me up to my goal of eighty laps per day. Granted, this goal was just penned yesterday, but I’m determined to follow through for the next thirty-five days. Surely if I do, I’ll become more youthful.

Last summer, I looked younger than my sixty-six years. Every day I completed those eighty laps, and, by mid-summer, I was content with my looks. I felt so good about myself, I almost began an affair. Almost.

No, I really wouldn’t. I’m happily married. Aren’t I?

The two-hundred-dollar-plus price tag on the gorgeous mother-of-the-bride gown I purchased two months ago glares at me. The dress was tight then. I haven’t tried it on again, since I hadn’t made any motions of trying to lose weight—no, not weight, inches; I need to lose inches, not pounds. I guess that’s what happens as you age—you accumulate excess bulge around your middle. I haven’t gained pounds, just inches, and I need to tone up and lose that surplus. I’ve heard that muscle weighs more than fat, which would explain the contradiction—my muscle has simply converted to fat.

When the water hits my waist, I want to retreat, but once I immerse myself, it will only be a second—just one mere second—until the warmth blankets me. The water is warm, I have to keep reminding myself. It’s the air that’s cool. Once I’m fully wet, I’ll be cozy, similar to crawling into bed and being cocooned by the heat of an electric blanket.

I grab the yellow noodle, position it under my large breasts and wrap my arms around it, before collapsing to the water. The cold is a shock—but only for that second—and then I’m warm. Lately, I haven’t wasted time entering the pool. Instead, I’ve been jumping right in and getting that second of cold over with quickly.

Time is precious.

With the noodle safely under my arms, I breast-stoke up and down the pool. Water changes one’s profile, and I morph into svelteness. My muscles are working. The batwings diminish and my legs tone. I’ll soon be fit. I know I will.

I keep at it. Up. Down. And back again. Each swim across the length is one lap. Just twenty. I completed the other sixty earlier today.

I feel lightheaded. Is it the wine? I shouldn’t have consumed that last glass. Perhaps I’m an alcoholic after all. Alcoholism runs in my family, so much so that one of my brothers won’t touch alcohol for fear of becoming our late father or grandfather. But I’m a woman. None of the deceased women in my family were alcoholics. Only the men.

I’m safe.

The noodle buoys me. Can I swim without it? Hubby says my workout will make me stronger and fitter without it. I’m an excellent swimmer, and I don’t really need it. It’s just soothing grasping something when I’m alone in the water, like a lonely person hugging one’s pillow at night.

I let go. And continue swimming. The noodle floats away. I paddle after it. The wind comes up and propels it faster—and farther. Just another couple of moves, and I’ll soon catch it.

My feet touch water. I’m in the shallow end, right? But why is water covering my head if I’m in the shallow end? When did I sink? Where’s my noodle? I look up to see that skinny water log of foam floating aimlessly like a lily pad. I stretch for it.

Just a tad out of my reach.

***

The Spot Writers- our members:

RC Bonitz
http://www.rcbonitz.com

Val Muller
https://valmuller.com/blog

Catherine A. MacKenzie
http://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Deborah Dera
http://www.deborahdera.com

Uncategorized none

Book Review: Artificial Absolutes by Mary Fan

July 1, 2013 No comments

This is a sci-fi novel about a young man named Devin and his sister, Jane. Siblings of the wealthy Colt family, they begin the novel with something strange happening to their significant others: Devin’s girlfriend reacted strangely to his marriage proposal, “freezing” in place. Jane’s boyfriend has disappeared, with various people covering up his absence. As the siblings investigate further, it seems that their significant others have been (or are being) replaced with artificial intelligence. There’s much more to the plot, but I don’t want to spoil it, as elements and characters (and their true identities) are revealed as you read.

While taking the reader on a sci-fi journey, the novel also examines the debate about science versus religion and the nature of existence/belief/awareness. For instance, Jane isn’t very religious, but her boyfriend is studying to devote his life to religion, and she seems drawn to his philosophies. Not to mention all the AI.

The strength of the novel is definitely the plot. Once the action picks up, the pace rarely slows down. The various settings allow for some interested (and often seedy) characters. This is where the book really shined—where characters were allowed to speak for themselves and let their actions characterize them. For me, the weakness was being told too much rather than being shown—with both flashbacks and with explaining concepts that exist in the Colts’ world. This diminished as the book progressed, and by the end, you’ll find yourself turning pages to finish. The book definitely picks up as you read it—I wish the first part were shorter so I could get to the end more quickly!

I would recommend this book to fans of sci-fi (though there isn’t much hard core sci-fi here, and in some cases, more description would have been interesting), fans of action, and fans of philosophy. It’s an easy read, making it ideal for a YA or adult audience.

book reviews none

Spot Writers: The Leak

June 27, 2013 No comments

The following poem, modeled after Poe’s “The Raven,” is based on an event that happened to me one cold, rainy night in January, when my (third-floor) washing machine decided to break and leak during the most rainy storm of the year. If you like creepy things like water demons, be sure to check out my newest book, Faulkner’s Apprentice, at valm16.sg-host.com .  

 

Once upon a midnight deluge, while I cuddled in bed for refuge

In the warm, deceptive comfort of the flannel that I wore,

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping–

Someone not-so-gently wrapping, wrapping at the bedroom door.

“Tis my husband,” I yawned and muttered, “tapping at my bedroom door—

Only this and nothing more.”

 

Ah, but slowly I grew wary in the bleak of January

As each vicious raindrop very heavily on the rooftop poured.

Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow

From my bed a rested morrow—a morrow with dry wall and floor—

For a rare and rested morning with dry walls and rugs and floor—

Impossible here for evermore.

 

Then the frightful, mad, uncertain jerking of my husband lurking

Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I thought, repeating,

‘Tis my husband at the entrance of my chamber door,

Some late errand causing him to linger at the chamber door.

That it is, and nothing more.

 

Presently, my soul grew sicker, responding then a little quicker,

“What,” said I, “Are you doing at the bedroom door?

I was so peacefully napping and so loudly you came rapping

With such strange and fearful tapping, tapping at the chamber door.”

His eyes grew wide. “What is it?” glancing, I implored.

Water there, and nothing more.

 

Deep into the water peering, shocked I stood there wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no homeowner wished to dream before.

But the silence was forever broken—yes, the washer, it was broken—

And the only words there spoken were the whispered words “the floor!”

This I whispered, and an echo muttered back the words, “the floor!”

Sopping there forever more.

 

Down into the stairway turning, all my blood within me burning,

Soon I heard a gushing somewhat louder than before.

“Surely,” said I, “surely it is not the horrid image seething through my brain,”
I said, in pain, and rushed to confront what I’d abhor.

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore—

‘Tis the rain and nothing more!”

 

Down the stairs I nearly shuddered; my flannel, dripping, nearly fluttered

As I stepped into a puddle pooling on the hardwood floor.

Not the least obeisance made it, not a minute stopped or stayed it;

With the chlorine it emitted, it swirled around the wooden floor—

Swirled upon a hardwood plank and wet the gleaming hardwood floor,

Swirled and dripped and nothing more.

 

Then this water demon drowning my restful sleep into frowning

By the grave and stern reality of the wetness on the floor.

“Though thy form be wet and brazen, thou,” I said, “shall not emblazen

Ghastly water marks and graven markings upon my hardwood floor.

Tell me thy nefarious purpose that turned my home into the shore!”

Dripped the water, “Nevermore.”

 

Much I marveled this ungainly water to hear discourse so plainly,

Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;

For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

Should e’er be cursed with sound or seeing water on his hardwood floor—

Water swirling, dripping, whirling fast upon the hardwood floor

That splashes the sound of “nevermore.”

 

I rushed up to turn off the water, but it stopped not—it did not matter—

That one sound, as if my soul in that one sound did outpour—

Nothing further the water muttered, but continued in starts and sputters

To drip on floor and table clutter as water has never dripped before.

“On the morrow, the water will leave me and my home will be dry as before.”

Then the water gushed, “Nevermore.”

 

Staring at the water dripping, my stomach fluttering hard and sinking,

“Doubtless,” said I, “it will stop dripping from the ceiling to the floor.

Caught in some unhappy piping, some drywall on the ceiling striping,

Flowing fast and flowing faster till it could flow no more.”

Then the dirges of the water’s chanting continued dripping once more

To the tune of “nevermore.”

 

Then the water still annoying my sad soul to nearly crying,

Straight I wheeled a wooden seat under the drip along the floor.

I held a bucket under the dripping—my sanity was close to flipping—

Crazy unto crazy, thinking how much more I could handle of the chore—

This grim, ungainly, ghastly, grotesque, gurgling water on the floor

That seemed to stop dripping—nevermore.

 

When? I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To the ghost whose watery drips singed like acid into my hardwood floor.

This and more I sat divining, with my eyes so nearly crying

At the midnight’s surreal timing as the water drizzled o’er—

The bucket I balanced on the railing that the water drizzled o’er.

The water shall stop, ah, nevermore!

 

Then, methought, the air grew hopeful, to lighten up my sadly woeful

Mood brought on by water gushing from the ceiling to the floor.

Restoration trucks—Insurance had sent thee—to help the water that tormented me

Respite, respite and nepenthe, and forget the water on the floor!

Oh, please, Insurance, come and help me to forget the water on the floor.

Gushed the water, “Nevermore!”

 

“Water,” said I, “thing of evil! Water, still, sent by the devil,

Water demon that brought the rainy tempest inside my door;

Desolate and wet, undaunted, making my house water-haunted,”–

In my home the water taunted—“Tell me from the hardwood floor,

Is there dryness in my future; will you leave and come no more?”

Gurgled the water, “Nevermore.”

 

“Water!” said I, “Thing of evil! Demon still, if ghost or devil,

By the water that drips above us, by the water I now abhor,

Tell this soul with sorrow drippy, and hopefully quite quickly,

If it shall see an arid future in the townhome I once adored—

See a dry and peaceful future in the place I once adored?”

Gurgled the water, “Nevermore.”

 

“Be that word our sign of parting, dripping mess,” I shrieked, upstarting,

“Get thee back into the tempest and the night’s downpouring roar!

Leave no black mold as a token of my dripping washer, broken,

Or the night I was awoken by the water on my floor!

Take your drips from out my ceiling and your pools from off my floor.”

Dripped the water, “Nevermore.”

 

And the water, never flitting, still is dripping, still is dripping,

From the pallid paint above me onto my gleaning hardwood floor;

And its drips and sound of gurgling, like a sinister figure burgling

My mind and home, incessant burdening as it pools upon the floor.

And my soul from out that puddle that lies pooling on the floor

Shall be drowned—forevermore!

 

The Spot Writers- our members:

 RC Bonitz
http://www.rcbonitz.com

Val Muller
https://valmuller.com/blog

Catherine A. MacKenzie
http://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Deborah Dera
http://www.deborahdera.com

 

flash fiction, poetry none

Writer Wednesday: Catherine Stovall

June 26, 2013 No comments

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Today I’m featuring Catherine Stovall in celebration of her new book, Faire Eve. It’s a young adult fantasy published by Crushing Hearts and Black Butterfly Publishing.

Catherine Stovall is the author of Faire Eve, The Requiem of Humanity Series, Fearful Day, Sweet Sally Slasher, and Bloody Freedom. Stovall is a member of the International Thriller Writers and the creator of International Bug Your Library Day, an operation to spread awareness for Indie and Small Press Authors.

Faire Eve

Faire Eve

Under the watchful eye of her over protective mother, Eve grew up in a world without magic and fancy. She never cared about riding a unicorn, dancing at balls or being a princess. Now, all the things she never desired are hers and every other girl’s dream is her nightmare”

The Sidhe ruled over fairy magic from the twilight city, Trig Na nOg, until a beast cast a dark spell to send them into a death-like sleep. In an attempt to reap revenge on the fairy people, Tiritchiq hunts Eve and her entourage as they campaign to place the halfling princess on the throne.

In order to save the world of Evalon and a family she has never known, Eve travels through dimensions, crosses dangerous landscapes, and learns to accept the Sidhe blood within. With the moody and handsome Daione Warrior Eldon by her side, she must embrace the darkness inside of her and face down a powerful foe.

Excerpt:

No one spoke and Eldon seemed hyper-alert. The sound came as a low rumble, as if somewhere in the distance, a train hurtled towards them on worn tracks. Quickly, it grew louder and the temperature dropped in a sudden plunge. As peril filled the air around them, the Ki’Lin broke into a run. Faster than the wind itself, they plummeted toward the boulders.

Eve screamed with the sudden burst of speed. She locked her legs tight to Bai’s sides and gripped his mane fiercely to try to stay abreast. The stallion made no protest but Eve felt guilty about her own brutality but not guilty enough to slacken her hold and risk taking a fall. Eve focused on the boulders, hoping they reached whatever safe haven lay within them. She did not know if it was merely a safe place or another gate, but she knew they must make it in order to escape the darkness.

Eve leaned low over Bai’s strong neck. Her face nearly touched her hands as she fought to keep herself out of the chilling wind. She turned her head to the side to prevent his mane from assaulting her eyes and nose. Eldon sat high on Heian’s back with his silver blade drawn. His hair blew back in the wind and his face wore a mask of bravery. Eve felt safer knowing he would defend her. He was a Daione Warrior, and his duty was to the queen.

Eldon shouted, “When we reach the passage, do not slow. Hit it full force.”

Eve tensed. She knew they must be nearing their destination but the roaring drowned out the sound of the unicorns. She couldn’t help wanting to rise up and witness what happened when they crossed the spot in the road. Even as frightened as she was, she expected it to be nothing more than miraculous. As she started to rise, she saw the eyes.
To the right of the road, a forest stood. It did not seem special, an area full of tall trees. Deep within the darkest shadows, Eve saw two glowing blue eyes, much bigger than any animal in her world. When she looked into them, it felt as if a hand of ice reached in and covered her heart. She trembled violently and when she opened her mouth to scream, her voice froze in her chest. Almost at the same moment, the group slammed through the passage.

A dizzying and blinding change instantly overcame her. Eve, Bai, Eldon, and Heian were the first ones through. The passage led them from an empty countryside into the heart of a bustling village. Anyone who traveled the way often would know to do so slowly but the group had no choice but to charge through at full speed in order to escape the demon in the woods.

Bai and Heian reared up, front hooves filleting the sky above the cowering pedestrians. Those who were lucky enough to be safely out of harm’s way seemed too stunned by the presence of Ki’Lin to be afraid for their fellow townspeople. Some shouted angry screams, while others emitted gasps of awe. The rest of Eve’s escorts barreled through the gate and skidded to a halt but not soon enough to keep from colliding painfully with each other.

Eve’s grip faltered and she fell. No strong arms were there to catch her. She and Eldon were separated during the chaos. She slammed down hard onto the cobblestone street and cried out in pain. Stamping hooves pounded all around her and she choked on the cloud of dust they brought with them through the pass. Curling herself in a protective ball and covering her head with her hands, Eve screamed for Eldon.

In her horror book Stolen, Jenda and Soborgne are best friends and everything they do,

Stolen_SMthey do together. Unfortunately, this time the girls may be joined at the hip in a far more horrible way: by death.

The girls are kidnapped and held captive by Belle and Matteo, two vampires with a plan. Belle, a sociopath in life and death, is searching for an heir to her reign as the only vampire to hold the secret to surviving the sun. Matteo is a lost soul who would give anything to be loved and to see the light of day. As the four characters’ worlds collide, blood is spilled, lives are lost, and rules are broken.

Disappointment in love and life bring out the worst in humans but, with vampires, it leads to a chilling tale of romance and terror.

Farful DayIn Fearful Day, another horror work, sometimes, in the darkness, there are things waiting for the most innocent souls. Things which seek out the goodness in its victims because it is the most precious thing they can destroy.

The author of Stolen: Requiem of Humanity: Book One brings you into the recesses of a twisted mind in this tale of demons, shadows, and prophecies fulfilled.

You can find out more about Catherine here:

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Writer Wednesdays none

Book Review: The Difference Between Night and Day by Melissa Turner Lee

June 25, 2013 3 comments

This is a Christian, clean romance. While I don’t normally read Christian literature that is too preachy, I enjoyed this book, primarily because it was well written and had a story beyond the lesson in the book. This review contains one or two spoilers integral to a review, but the plot of the story is not ruined.

The story follows a (very old) young man named Nathaniel who is always awake at nights, patrolling the town and keeping people safe. He comes across a young woman named Lilly, who seems out of place being wide awake in the wee hours of the morning shopping for crazy junk food–and all dressed up to boot! He thinks she is “special” at first and follows her to make sure she doesn’t get into (or cause) any trouble. He is immediately attracted to her, and we come to find out that he is a vampire who has somehow resisted he desire to bite or kill others or let his anger get the best of him. He spent ten years in a cave with his Bible, trying to figure out why God allowed him to be turned into a monster. Throughout the story, Lilly is less shocked than she should be when learning about Nathaniel’s condition. The two begin an uneasy relationship with its typical ups and downs—this is the part I will not spoil for you.

What I enjoyed the most was the good writing. It really pulled the story along and made this a quick, enjoyable read. I did enjoy the wholesome message of faith in the book, though I felt at times it was made too obviously and too many times. I also felt the story was slightly cliché—a very innocent girl falling for a “bad guy” or vampire. It’s been done, but the writing and theme of the book helped to avoid the monotony of that storyline. Overall, I recommend it as a quick read for someone wanting a book with a paranormal twist but a wholesome, uplifting message.

book reviews none

The Buttersmiths’ Gold (Evertaster Series) by Adam Glendon Sidwell

June 24, 2013 No comments

This novella is the second work in the Evertaster Series (you can read my review of Book 1 here). In Book 1, Guster travels the globe looking for ingredients that make up The One Recipe. One of the places he travels involves two Vikings named Torbjorn and Storfjell who help him (among other ways) by giving him the most delicious butter on Earth (literally).

This novella is a side story to the series—it does not involve Guster or his family at all; rather, it tells the back story of Torbjorn and Storfjell as young men, explaining how they came upon the special butter. Like the first tale, the novella was well-written. There was fun word play and clever plotline. For example, the Vikings’ prized possession is their blueberry muffins—because what else can you smother with the most delicious butter on Earth? Though enjoyed the “Guster” storyline better, this book was an interesting addition to the original tale—I recommend reading them one right after the other, or reading this novella when you get to the part in Book 1 involving Torbjorn and Storfjell.

A warning: when reading either of these books, you will start craving food. Just saying!

book reviews none

Spot Writers: Revenge is sweet- and sometimes soggy.

June 20, 2013 No comments

Today’s post is by RC Bonitz, author of A Blanket for Her Heart and the A Little Bit of … series. This story isn’t his usual style. Enjoy.

 Revenge is sweet- and sometimes soggy.

 

“Is that who I think it is?” I hissed.

“Bill Jackson? Yup, he’s the jerk who ran into us,” Brenna murmured.

“And cursed us too. Somebody ought to teach him the right of way rules.”

She nodded. “He thinks he’s God’s gift to sailing.”

“Really?” I said and started across the room.

God’s gift beamed as I approached wearing my best coquettish expression.

“I hear you’re a really great sailor,” I murmured.

“You could say that,” he said with a supercilious smile.

“I’m Jen. Would you give me some lessons?” Fluttered my eyes quite well I think.

“Now?”

“Why not?”

He positively bubbled with enthusiasm. “Let’s go.”

Ten minutes later we sailed out into the harbor, me sitting helplessly, offering compliments as the water passed beneath our bow, him lecturing and preening with each comment I made. He obviously hadn’t noticed me when he crashed into Brenna’s boat during the race and filled the air with foul language.

“You’ve never sailed before?” he asked.

“Once or twice.”

His grin widened just a little. “You want to steer?”

I sure did. “Okay.”

“Take the tiller. I’ll give you instructions.” He moved aside so I could take his place.

He proceeded to give me ten minutes of the different ways to direct a sailboat. My eyes on his, I attended to his every word.

“That’s good,” he said, “You’ll do.”

We were far enough from shore to make my move. No other boats within a mile, we had complete privacy. God’s gift looked quite pleased with himself, with his bare arms and muscles showing under his yacht club T shirt. It was time. I turned the charm up to sizzle.

“You’re beautiful,” he said abruptly.

“You look good yourself.”

“Actually I was thinking you look hot,” he said. “Can I help with that?”

“Steering? I suppose you could,” I purred.

He stood and moved to get closer to me. “We should probably stop sailing –”

I slammed the tiller over. The boat tilted sharply and he staggered. I smashed my fist into his chest. The stagger became a lurch that heaved him over the side of the boat. Splash! Into the water!

“Hey,” he shouted before he went completely under.

He popped up, spitting water and flailing. “Hey, come back. I can’t swim. Hey!”

But he was swimming, sort of, not well, trying to keep his head above water. And he was wearing a life jacket.

“Stop! Just float. I’m coming back,” I shouted. Great. I was teaching him a lesson and who knew he’d panic? Could you drown wearing a life jacket? Oh God, I’d get the chair, or the needle, or whatever they used now.

“I’m coming. Hold on.” I shoved the tiller to the side and the boat heeled into a tight turn, then headed back at him. Fifty feet, forty, the boat was closing fast. I had to get the jib down, control the boat, tie it to him.

The boat was almost on him. I threw a line as I went by. He ignored it, grabbed for the boat, got his hand on a cleat and was practically jerked out of the water before he lost his grip.

“Grab the rope! I have to turn to stop!”

He went under, came up, caught the rope and hung on.

Thank you God. Desperate, I swung the boat around and almost hit him I was so close.

He began to pull himself to the boat, almost dragging me overboard with him. His face was gray, that look that came with exhaustion. Weary and frightened, he was, his eyes showed that.

“You’re crazy,” he sputtered, his voice high and almost squeaky with emotion.

“Save your strength. You’re not in the boat yet,” I barked, but a touch of sympathy softened my heart. Just a teeny little bit.

He swore and tried to heave himself up on the deck. Halfway he went, fell back, went under and came up glaring.

“Use the rope,” I said and tied it to the far side of the boat. “Try now.” Once more he heaved his body up, and this time dragged himself into the boat.

“It’s a good thing you’re strong,” I said pleasantly.

He rolled over and stared at me. “You’re crazy, and you know how to sail.”

I grinned. “You could say that. I do have a few first place trophies at home.”

***

The Spot Writers- our members:

 RC Bonitz
http://www.rcbonitz.com

Val Muller
https://valmuller.com/blog

Catherine A. MacKenzie
http://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Deborah Dera
http://www.deborahdera.com

flash fiction, RC Bonitz none

Writer Wednesdays with Mary Fan

June 19, 2013 No comments

This week, I had a chance to chat with Mary Fan, author of the sci-fi novel Artificial Absolutes, which I’ll get the chance to read later this summer. You can check out the trailer here.

Tell us about yourself:

I’m an opera-singing, kick-boxing, violin-playing millennial currently residing in New Jersey. During the day, I work in financial marketing, and at night, I write books. I was a music major in college (specializing in composition), and although I’m not pursuing that at the moment, I still scribble songs in my spare time (when I have any).

Tell us about your book:

Set in the distant future, Artificial Absolutes is a sci-fi adventure through space and cyberspace that follows a young woman’s efforts to save both her kidnapped friend and her falsely-convicted brother from a powerful, invisible enemy known only as No Name. It plays on familiar sci-fi tropes—chases through space, laser gun battles, virtual worlds—while focusing on the characters and their internal as well as external conflicts.

Did you always know you wanted to be a writer?

Yes and no. I’ve always loved reading (I was that weird kid who spent lunch hour in the library and lugged around books too big for me), and I also liked making up stories in my head. My favorite projects in elementary school were the ones that involved writing a story or making a book. I started writing in earnest in middle school and continued through high school, then had to give it a rest because I had too much work to do for college. Also, I realized how freaking hard this whole writing business was and thought maybe I wasn’t cut out for it, especially since I was really getting into music (which, funnily enough, is even harder).

A few years out of college, though, the writing bug bit me again, and I haven’t been able to stop since. Even during the years when I wasn’t actively writing, I was still making up stories in my head and just telling them to myself. So I figured, why not write them down and see how far they go?

Who is your favorite character in your book, and why?

Jane Colt is my protagonist, and so naturally she’s my favorite. She’s ordinary in that she’s not a bounty hunter or secret agent or anything like that — she’s a 22-year-old office worker with dreams of becoming a musician. When it comes to fighting bad guys, her skills include flying a ship and… not much else. But although she is somewhat aware of her disadvantages, she sticks to the belief that she can do anything. She’s very headstrong, perhaps with a touch of arrogance, but at the same time, she can be very insecure. She hides her insecurity behind a mask of confidence and, when in doubt, isn’t above charming her way out of a problem.

Are any elements of your book autobiographical or inspired by elements of your life?

Anyone who knows me will see that Jane’s a composer working in an office, and I’m a composer working in an office and instantly conclude that she’s me. I must protest! While elements of my personality did end up in her character, she’s a mishmash of many people—my sister, Scarlet O’Hara, Princess Leia, Elizabeth Swann… at this point, I think she’s just herself. I did draw upon my experiences in music to bring hers to life.

I think pieces of myself ended up in each of my characters, including the villains, which I think is inevitable since they all came from my head. However, nothing comes directly from real life. Especially since Artificial Absolutes takes place in outer space.

What’s your favorite scene or location in the work you’re currently promoting, and why?

My favorite scene to write was chapter 2, where the reader is first introduced to Jane. It depicts just how dull her life has become–she just gets up and goes to work–and it reveals a lot about who she is. She’s a dreamer who won’t allow herself to pursue her passions out of a somewhat misguided sense of rationality, a self-proclaimed loner who misses having company, and an opinionated young woman who has a hard time keeping her some of her not-so-nice thoughts to herself. It’s something of a “day in the life” chapter, and it gave me a chance to show the reader a bit of what life in the Interstellar Confederation is like.

Then her friend gets kidnapped at the end of chapter 2, and everything starts getting crazy.

Are you working on any other projects at the moment?

Yup—too many for my own good! While Artificial Absolutes was conceived as a stand-alone book, I left the ending open enough to invite a sequel just in case. Well, I couldn’t help wondering what would happen next, so I ended up planning out two more books. The second installment, Synthetic Illusions, was recently picked up by Red Adept Publishing and will be out in spring 2014.

Meanwhile, I have a YA dystopian fantasy series under contract with Glass House Press, called “Flynn Nightsider.” It’s a five-book series set in a future in which, following an apocalyptic battle with the evil Lord of the Underworld, the magical Enchanters have taken over the world and oppress the ordinary, non-magical people. The first book, Flynn Nightsider and the Edge of Evil, is scheduled to be released in March 2014.

So that’s already two more books I’ll be editing and promoting side-by-side, and for some reason, I thought it’d be a good idea to start a third project entirely removed from those two series. It’s a YA sci-fi/paranormal romance, and it’s kind of new territory for me because I’m accustomed to plot-driven adventures while this project is more of a drama. So we’ll see how it goes…

Finally, where can we find you? (blogs, website, facebook, twitter, etc.)

I have two blogs: Zigzag Timeline (http://zigzagtl.blogspot.com), where I blog about books and post reviews, and Astral Musings (http://astralcolt.tumblr.com), where I post whatever randomness happens to come to mind. My website is http://www.MaryFan.com, and I’m on Twitter as @astralcolt and Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/mfanwriter (all my social media links can be found on my website).

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Book Review: Evertaster by Adam Sidwell

June 17, 2013 No comments

This is a fun, quirky middle-grade book (the first book in the Evertaster series) following Guster, an eleven-year-old picky eater. Guster is always hungry; his nickname is “capital P” because that’s what he looks like—a stick with a head on it. He simply won’t eat sub-par food. The descriptions of ordinary food from Guster’s point of view reflects Sidwell’s talents. The book is humorous and fun.

While trying to find gourmet food, Guster finds himself involved in a five-hundred-year-old quest to find The One Recipe, a recipe so good and pure it will supposedly solve all of humanity’s problems. Along the way, he and his family meet devil chefs—chefs dressed in red uniforms that seem bent on causing the family harm. Guster realizes he must find The One Recipe. The only clue he has is an egg beater that seems to be a combination lock of some sort that is slowly revealing clues. Guster’s sister easily agrees to help him on his quest, and eventually his mother and a pilot agree as well. Before long, the family is traveling the globe in search of ingredients for the recipe.

Guster is called the “evertaster” because he can taste each individual ingredient in a recipe, and he can tell where each ingredient came from, how it was harvested and prepared, etc.

The book is over-the-top in a fun, humorous way so that kids and adults will enjoy the read. For instance, while in Peru, the kids encounter giant, man-eating birds guarding a tree that grows eggs (the largest of these eggs just happens to be the first ingredient in the one recipe).

The author took care in the writing, and I feel like when I read, my time is respected. The book is full of food metaphors, reinforcing the theme and allowing us to see the world through the culinarily-obsessed Guster. I enjoyed the over-the-top comparison between the light-hearted search for a recipe and more serious adventures—The One Recipe, of course, is reminiscent of The One Ring from Lord of the Rings, and the egg beater is similar to a coded puzzle that might be found in The DaVinci Code. A great read—one of the better books I’ve read recently.

I look forward to reviewing the second book next week.

What follows is an excerpt provided by the author and a chance to win a giveaway. I reviewed this book as part of a book tour and was provided a free copy, but the opinions expressed are my own.

Eleven-year-old Guster Johnsonville was about to hold the fate of humanity on the end of his spoon. It never would have happened  that way if he hadn’t been such a picky eater, nor would he have left the farmhouse in Louisiana and set out across the world if it weren’t for that wretched Ham Chowder Casserole.

            No one likes to eat this stuff, thought Guster, even though his two brothers and sister didn’t seem to mind. But if Mom ever made that mishmash of pig, peas, and potato again, he would be doomed.

            To think! They called him picky. “You’re a remarkable child,” was all Mom would say to him when he told her that the potatoes in her Chowder were grown so far north, they tasted like gravel. Never mind that he was on the verge of starvation.

             “Not picky! Just careful,” Guster always said. How often he went hungry! How badly he needed something to eat! The way food burned or ached as it passed across his tongue — it was like eating day-old road kill. Hot dogs were like the sweaty vinyl back seat of a station wagon with its windows rolled up in the sun. Frozen burritos were like buttery squirrels infected with the flu.

Here’s the giveaway:
a Rafflecopter giveaway

 

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Spot Writers: No One Will Ever Love Her More

June 13, 2013 No comments

This week’s story comes from Deborah Dera. Deborah traditionally ghostwrites articles and stories but it in the process of working on her first eBook to be released on the Kindle platform later this year.

 ***

 No One Will Ever Love Her More

I feel betrayed.

I often wonder how the woman who once called herself my best friend could ignore my calls and messages, instead turning to other ‘friends.’ They’re just people she sees more often than me, now that we don’t work together. They don’t know her like I do. They don’t understand.

Still, I’m out of sight, out of mind.

Every single time I call she lets the phone go to the voice mail system. A minute or two later, she’ll text me instead of calling me back. I hate texting. Good friends don’t text. They talk.

But maybe it’s easier to keep me at arm’s distance that way.

I’ve never given less than my best to my friends. Ever. I’ve always been there for them. I was there when Deanna’s husband left her. I was there when she spent weeks crying and trying to figure out how to support her daughter. I was there when she was ready to start socializing again. I was there. I was there.

Now, there’s nobody here.

I’m the one who stayed sober on every single girls night out we had, while everyone else got to sashay around with drinks in their hands.

I’m the one who answered the phone at 3am.

I’m the one who dropped everything to barge into the local bookstore’s coffee shop and “bump” into her to break up a date going sour.

I ran interference more times than I can count.

Now, here I am, standing in line waiting to pay respects at her grandfather’s funeral. She gave me a cursory hug, an obviously fake exclamation of excitement over seeing me (considering the circumstances this would be normal, but all of her welcomes are fake these days). She introduced me to another friend – one who walked in behind me – and then rushed to a corner to discuss some must-share gossip.

What the hell am I doing here? Showing support, for her, as she struggles with the death of someone she hated for half her life.

Her new friend is wiping a tear from her eye. I hope she understands she’ll be like Jeckyl and Hyde far longer than the average person should be after an event like this. I hope she knows how she’ll internalize the events of the past and make them all about herself, even though they’re not. I hope she has the courage to try to show her how to think it through, rather than supporting every word that comes out of her mouth.

I wait what I feel is an acceptable amount of time to sit in a funeral home viewing room. I quietly search for my car keys and then slip out the door I entered through.

Goodbye.

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