Sonya Clark

New contract, new group blog, new teefies!

2013-06-08T09:00:00.000-05:00

All kinds of awesome news in this month's News Post! First up: a new contract.

I'm thrilled to announce that Lyrical Press has contracted HOODOO WOMAN, the third book in the Mojo series! I'm really excited about this book. It definitely takes some chances with the series arc but I love it. Here's my unofficial description:

Storm magic - wild, unpredictable, and guaranteed to turn the world upside down. Roxie Mathis is stronger than ever now that she's learned to call thunder and lightning and she's rebuilding her life. But her lover Blake doesn't trust her new supernatural assistant or the untamed magic she now practices. Roxie will have to decide between making him happy or being true to herself.

To complicate things further, her old love Ray Travis asks her to come home. A dead girl is haunting the entire town and the only way to bring the spirit to peace is to solve her murder. With her vampire ancestor along for the ride, Roxie bites the bullet and decides to face her past. Caught in a web of secrets and magic, going home could kill Roxie - or set her free.

My next bit of awesome news is that I've joined a terrific group blog called Here Be Magic. My debut post is part of their Urban Fantasy Week. I'm thrilled to be part of the blog. With so many members, I think I'll only be posting about every couple of months. Such a light blogging schedule meets the approval of my personal assistant. ;) Please check out Here Be Magic, and you can also follow the group on Twitter and Facebook.

And of course I'm eagerly awaiting the release of TRANCEHACK, coming from Carina Press in the fall. Hopefully in the next month or so I'll have cover art to share!

In the meantime, here's my personal assistant showing off her teefies. :)

Blogging Changes

2013-05-28T15:24:00.000-05:00

You might have noticed that content on the blog has been pretty sparse for a while now. For months I've been trying to keep it going, but the truth is I just don't have time anymore. With a baby to take care of, books to write, plus a husband and housework and just general life stuff…I don't have the time to keep posting anything more than news and announcements here. So I'm trying to make this space operate a bit more like a website, with the home page featuring any news. I'm also going to make an effort to post on my Facebook page more often to make up for the lack of content here. Music videos of songs that help me write, info about what I'm reading lately, stuff from my publishers and fellow authors that I think folks might find interesting, and maybe the occasional work in progress excerpt. Not constantly, though, maybe once a day or every other day. That page feeds into Twitter, which is where I'll likely be posting the most from.

Don't get me wrong, I'm probably going to miss blogging. It's been a lot of fun and I've gotten a lot out of it, but with all the time pressures I have now, microblogging platforms like Twitter and Facebook are so much easier. I'm leaving old posts up because I see no reason to take them down, and who knows - maybe when I have more time I'll return to regular blogging. Until then, thank you for reading! Please keep me in your reader for news and updates (there will be news soon!) and do follow me on Facebook and Twitter.

My personal assistant, who keeps me busy.

Tales of the Underlight series by Jax Garren

2013-05-13T08:00:00.000-05:00

This weekend I started reading a terrific series called Tales of the Underlight by Jax Garren. The first book, HOW BEAUTY MET THE BEAST, got me hooked. Book two, HOW BEAUTY SAVED THE BEAST, is waiting for me on my Kindle. And - squee! - book three, HOW BEAUTY LOVED THE BEAST, releases today! Check out this fab series, you won't be disappointed!

Carina Press - Kindle - Nook

The Beast

Scarred. Damaged. Living with a terrible secret. Agent of the Underlight Wesley "Hauk" Haukon has nothing left but the fight for liberty against the oppressive Order of Ananke. He's starting to lose hope...and then he sees her.

The Beauty

Despite her night job as a burlesque dancer, grad student Jolie Benoit has always played the mostly good girl. That all changes following a scorching sexual encounter with a stranger whose face she doesn't see. After she's kidnapped by thugs and rescued by a man with a very familiar voice, Jolie becomes a pawn in a struggle she never knew existed.

Hauk knows he cannot have her, and resolves to protect his heart and his secrets. But as they work together and grow closer, he finds new reason to keep fighting. Dare he risk hope in a new life, one where Jolie can see past his ravaged face and where their friendship can grow into something more?

Carina Press - Kindle - Nook

Jolie Benoit left her old life behind to become an agent of the Underlight. Training under Sergeant Wesley Haukon, she's honing her combat skills, all the while coping with the intense sexual attraction she feels for Hauk. She keeps their friendship casual, but when his high school sweetheart transfers into their division, Jolie finds herself grappling with jealousy.

The Underlight gave Hauk a purpose, but he can't escape his past completely. The physical and emotional scars from the fire that killed seven fellow Army Rangers will mark him forever. Jolie sends his protective instincts into overdrive, but he's convinced he'll never be worthy of her love.

Hauk is determined to keep Jolie from harm. But when the Order of Ananke ambushes them with a new weapon that neutralizes Hauk, making him vulnerable, it's Jolie who must tap into her hidden strengths to rescue him--or risk losing him forever...

Carina Press - Kindle - Nook

It's all been leading to this.

Jolie Benoit has become a skilled agent of the Underlight, relying on her savvy to complete assignments while Sergeant Wesley Haukon was out of commission. But an unexpected clue to the Order of Ananke's diabolical scheme rattles Jolie, and she turns to Hauk for comfort.

It's been years since Hauk took comfort from the touch of another person, though his love for Jolie is deep and powerful. Uncomfortable in his skin, scarred by a terrible fire, he is unable to give in to the pleasures that Jolie so desperately wants to grant him.

Meanwhile, the Order is lurking in the shadows--and when they strike, the blow is swift and terrible. Hauk and Jolie scramble to fight for their community, but with the future of the Underlight threatened, no one is safe. And Hauk will never be the same...

Back In Black

2013-05-07T08:00:00.000-05:00

For this month's news I've got the official back cover copy description of TRANCEHACK.

It’s 2065. Those born with magic abilities live in government-run zones, without rights or freedoms. Fear of magic created this segregated world and fear keeps it intact.

A high-profile murder brings Detective Nathan Perez to Magic Born Zone 13. He’s had little experience with the Magic Born and isn’t sure what to expect during his first encounter with a witch, but he never thought he’d be so drawn to her.

Trancehacker Calla Vesper uses magic to break into computers and aid the Magic Born underground. She has no interest in helping a cop, even if he is smoking-hot, but money’s tight and Nate offers a tidy amount for help navigating the Zone. Calla’s determined to keep it all business, but sparks start flying before the investigation even gets started.

When Calla’s trancehacking and Nathan’s investigation uncover a conspiracy, Calla becomes a target. Nate can protect her by keeping her role a secret—but then who will protect Nate?

The final word count comes in at 89,000 words, making it my longest work yet to be published. I should get cover art sometime this summer, with the book being released in the fall.

That's all I've got. Since finishing HOODOO WOMAN I've been taking a much needed break from writing every day. There's a couple of things I'm working on a little bit, but I don't want to talk about them since I'm not sure if they'll go anywhere. Mostly I've been hanging out with the baby, teaching her classic rock, one episode of Supernatural at a time.

Bring On The Night

2013-04-25T08:49:00.000-05:00

BRING ON THE NIGHT

Bring On The Night was the second book I finished. I'd written a novel - a long, meandering, hundred thousand word unpublishable novel. I knew that first book had too many issues to count and I wanted to see if I could write something with a straightforward plot, plenty of action, and no excess filler. Plus I wanted to write urban fantasy. So I came up with the idea for Bring On The Night and hit my goals with it. At just under thirty thousand words, I didn't know if there was anything I could do with it. Digital small press was new to me but it seemed like a good avenue to pursue, if I could manage to get the manuscript accepted.

Nerine Dorman was still at Lyrical Press at the time and she acquired the novella. Reading it over now, I don't know what she saw in it that made her want it, but I'm eternally grateful she took it (and me) on. I've seen quite a few authors say that writing was just something they thought they'd try their hand at. That's great, especially when it turns into success. But writing has never been that way for me. Writing books, being a published author - this has been my dream since I was thirteen years old. When I got the email from Lyrical Press publisher Renee Rocco in November of 2009 telling me they wanted to publish Bring On The Night, it was a dream come true. There were a lot of happy tears and staring at the screen in shock, wondering if this was real and expecting them to change their minds at any moment. Sometimes I still can't believe I'm a published author.

Bring On The Night changed my life. Since then I've continued to write, and thankfully publish. This is a hard business to be in. Little money, little respect, and lots of stuff I never counted on when I set out to be a writer. (coughohgodsocialmediacough) But the truth is, I love it. I love writing and publishing. I've even grown to love Twitter, even though I don't have as much time for it now that I have a baby.

If you're wondering why I'm getting all nostalgic about BOTN, well, here's the thing. Digital books have a contract, which means they do in fact have a shelf life. For this book, it's three years. I could have renewed the contract but I decided not to for some very specific reasons. This book is an oddball - a standalone urban fantasy novella with no romance. I have no plans to write more in this world, with these characters. If I did, it would be good to keep BOTN out there. But this is it, so I decided to not renew the contract. Retailers Amazon and Barnes and Noble have already removed it. The only place it's still available - I think - is the Lyrical site. As of May 17, the rights will revert to me. I don't know what I'll do with it. Probably nothing for now. Like I said, it's an oddball and I doubt I'll ever return to those characters. I don't have the means to self-publish it right now, or the time and energy to put into that. But who knows, later on when I do have the time I might find a way to put Bring On The Night back out there.

So it's going "out of print" so to speak. I'm a bit verklempt. Thank you to Lyrical Press, Renee Rocco, and Nerine Dorman for giving me the chance of a lifetime. I don't know what the publisher and editor side of this business is like, but ladies, when you find yourself having a bad day, remember you're making people's dreams come true. That's an extraordinary thing to do. Thank you!

#fridayflash - Goofer Dust Blues, Conclusion

2013-04-19T10:38:00.000-05:00

The demon was headed for us at a pretty good clip. We could probably escape by driving away, but what about the next time someone came out here to commune with Robert Johnson? This thing had itself a pretty good gig, preying on people who came here to pay homage to the bluesman, casting a spell on them with music, taking them by force if it had to. Yeah, we might escape, but the thing needed killing. If a tire iron wouldn’t do it and fire wouldn’t do it, what would?

My gaze fell on the guitar, left lying where the creature had first fallen from the tire iron in its chest. It used music to cast its spell, so …

“Can you distract it? Keep it away from the guitar?”

“You think that’s where it’s power is?”

I shrugged. “It’s the only idea I got.” I reached into my bag.

The thing was just a few feet away. Daniel never answered me, just threw himself at the creature again. They grappled and fought, Daniel leading it away from me. I ran for the guitar.

From my bag I pulled the last bottle of graveyard dirt and a plastic sandwich bag with a knobby root inside. I poured the dirt over the guitar. Crushed the root with my hand over my knee as best I could, then poured that over the guitar. Then I started stomping, breaking the guitar into pieces. I heard another unearthly shriek from the creature and turned so I could see it. Every time my feet broke another bit of that guitar, it took more out of the creature, literally. It was losing its corporeal form, bit by bit, body melting into the smudgy gray haze it came from. The guitar was not disappearing, though. I had shards of wood all around my feet, strings and frets and tuning keys. I kept smashing until the haze melted into nothing.

Daniel came over to me, took a look at the guitar parts and said, “Should we burn that?”

“Wouldn’t hurt.”

“What’d you use?”

“Graveyard dirt and angelica root. Protection and banishment. So I’m gonna have to get more dirt from Robert’s grave.”

He shook his head. “You go do that. I’ll take care of this.”

The spirit was finally gone this time. We were back on the road in half an hour, with the windows rolled down to help with the stink and me wrapped in the blanket from the emergency kit he kept in the back.
“I have never wanted a shower more in my life,” I said.

He chuckled. “All in a night’s work, huh?”

Skip James flooded out of the stereo, Devil Got My Woman. All of a sudden I felt damn tired of all this existential blues crap and wanted badly to hear something else. God help me, even some of Daniel’s country.
“Hey, you wanna play something else?”

He grinned. “Hell yes.” He replaced the CD with another from the sleeve attached to his visor.

A perky, driving rhythm filled the vehicle. He cranked up the volume and sang along, his voice somehow managing to give a punk edge to Dolly Parton’s Nine to Five. I went from appalled to amused over the space of about three seconds, then gave in. I mean, you’d have to have been living under a rock to not know at least the chorus.

<- Part 7

#fridayflash - Goofer Dust Blues, Part 7

2013-04-12T11:13:00.001-05:00

The spell broken, I stumbled backward. The thing grabbed at me with one bony claw of a hand. My head felt full of sludge and I couldn’t make my muscles follow orders. Another volley of rock salt hit the thing and it screamed again. Some part of my brain realized it was Daniel tossing around the salt and that I needed to get as far away from this thing as possible. My feet felt weighted down, trapped in something thick and heavy that didn’t want to let go. The thing reached for me again and this time it caught me, its claw-hand gripping my upper arm so tight I cried out.

I fell to my knees, trying to wrench myself away from the monster. Flailing, I twisted my arm out of its grip and fell away from it. It stood over me, red eyes burning and crying ichor. Still holding the guitar, it reached with its other hand for me. I scooted backward, its claws grazing my pants leg. Something flew over my head and the thing screamed again, the sound a mix of agony and rage. The SUV’s tire iron impaled it through the chest, thick black blood exploding out of its body and spattering all over me. The thing fell to the ground as a pair of hands yanked me away from it.

Daniel hauled me to my feet, holding onto me when I almost fell again. The monster or demon, whatever it was, flopped and screamed, crawling closer and grabbing for me again. Daniel and I retreated until it finally lay still and silent.

For a long moment all I could hear was the sound of my own breathing, heavy with the adrenaline dump. Finally I could speak again. “What the hell was that?”

“I don’t know,” Daniel sighed. “Not Robert Johnson, that’s for sure.”

“Some kind of spirit trying to trap people. That spell … did you hear it? Could you hear the music?”

“Yeah, I heard it, but I don’t think it wanted me, Roxie.”

I felt something slide from my hairline down my forehead. I looked down at myself, horrified. “Oh damn this is so nasty!” I tore my coat off, folding it so I could use the still clean inside to wipe off my face and jeans.

“Don’t smell too good, either,” Daniel said, giving me a look that said he didn’t relish the drive back to Clarksdale with me covered in evil spirit slime.

I didn’t get a chance to retort because the thing rose from the ground. It pulled the tire iron from its chest, sending more nasty slime running down its front, the stench hitting the cold air hard. Daniel jumped in front of me, one hand pushing me back toward the vehicle. The thing rushed him and I ran.

The back end of the SUV was open. I flipped the lid off the cooler and searched the contents. I grabbed a bottle of Grey Goose and went looking for my messenger bag. It lay on the ground near the marker. My knees protested over how hard I hit the ground when I dove for the bag, reaching inside it to dig for a lighter. I heard a loud crash behind me and chanced a look. The thing had thrown Daniel against the side of a tree. Daniel got back up and flung himself at the creature. He was moving so fast I couldn’t see all of it, but I was pretty sure he was looking for a chance to snap the thing’s neck.

My fingers found the lighter. I grabbed the vodka and ran to the fight, yelling at Daniel. He saw me, saw the bottle I held up. He nodded then pushed himself away from the monster. I tossed him the bottle and he caught it, snapping the top of the glass neck off and flinging the liquid at the thing, shaking the bottle to try to spread the vodka over it as much as possible.

I waited for Daniel to get out of the way, then flipped the Bic and threw it at the creature. It burst into flames, shrieking. It stumbled around, arms outstretched, until it collapsed, yet more of its thick black blood spilling on the ground.

“Stay dead this time, bitch!” Daniel yelled. He whipped his head around to look at me. His fangs were out, eyes glowing a bright blue. I took a step away from him without thinking. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Are you?”

“I need a drink. And a bath.” He laughed, fangs retracting as the electricity in his eyes subsided.
“I’m gonna wash my hair about a gazillion times.” I joined in his laughter. We started to walk back to the SUV, stopping to pick up my bag.

We were almost to the passenger door when we heard it. We exchanged a look, then turned in unison. Sure enough, the thing was pulling itself to its feet as if nothing happened.

Daniel let loose with an impressive string of curse words. “What the hell do we have to do to kill that thing?”

<- Part 6

Conclusion ->

#fridayflash - Goofer Dust Blues, Part 6

2013-04-04T21:19:00.000-05:00

It was a short drive to another little white country church. This time he left the headlights on since there was nothing around and we had no trouble finding the marker.

As I walked to it I heard the crack of an aluminum can opening behind me. I circled around the marker, a tall obelisk, shining my flashlight over all four sides to read it. It featured a picture of Robert, a brief biography, a list of his songs, and a quote from one of them.

“You may bury my body down by the highway side,” Daniel read.

“So my old evil spirit can catch a Greyhound bus and ride,” I finished, without needing to read it.

He gave the marker a look, one corner of his mouth lifted in a sneer, then took a drink from his can. “I don’t like this one. Too phallic.”

I rolled my eyes. “Now what are you drinking?”

“Dr. Pepper.”

“That’s worse than the blood slide,” I muttered. I waved my flashlight around to survey the surroundings. More picks had been left, a couple of beer bottles, a Pez dispenser. This was more of a monument than a grave marker and according to what I’d read, much like with our first stop no one believed he was really buried here. But the client wanted dirt from all three sites, so I was collecting dirt from all three sites.

I picked a spot in front of the side with Robert’s picture and repeated the process I’d done at Payne Chapel. This time, before I poured the whisky into the ground I held the bottle up in salute to Robert’s picture. Daniel did the same with his Dr. Pepper and looked over the picks, this time finding one stamped Gruhn Guitars, from back home in Nashville.

We drove into Greenwood, found Grand Boulevard and headed north. We crossed a bridge over the Tallahatchie River and continued for just a couple of miles until we reached Little Zion Church. A large tree in the back part of the cemetery led us to the marker for what was most likely Robert Johnson’s true final resting place.

“They’ve got an eyewitness story for this one, that’s why people think it’s the real deal,” I told Daniel as we stood in front of the marker. “A woman said her husband dug the grave. She said it was close to the tree. The casket sat under the tree while her husband did the digging.”

The stone marker was about a foot and a half tall, wedge shaped with writing on both sides. I shined the flashlight to read it.

“Jesus of Nazareth, King of Jerusalem. I know that my Redeemer liveth and that He will call me from the Grave.”

“Part of that’s from Job,” Daniel said. “I know my Redeemer liveth. That’s from Job. I can’t think what chapter and verse right now.”

“Supposedly he wrote that before he died. The story is, it was strychnine poisoning that killed him, and it didn’t kill him too quick. He suffered pretty bad.”

“That doesn’t sound like someone who believed more in the Devil than God. Or like someone who expected to find himself in Hell.” Daniel walked around the marker slowly, eyeing the offerings that had been left. There were more here than at the other two sites, including a harmonica and a couple of guitar slides. “It is pretty intense, though, when you take the stories about him into account. All the songs about pleading with God and walking with the Devil.”

I picked a spot to collect dirt, knelt down and unpacked my supplies. “That’s the thing about Robert. It was never just an existential crisis for him when he sang about God and the Devil. It was an existential apocalypse.”

The trowel broke into the earth and I quickly had a hole suitable for collecting. I plunged my hand into the ground and felt a shimmer of energy immediately. A gust of wind disturbed my hair, giving me a little spook. It tripped that switch in the back of my brain or deep down in my gut or wherever it was, the switch that flipped when the spook was just right and shivered across the ends of my nerves. The thing is, I like the dark. I like the spook. I feel at home there, walking alongside the things that go bump in the night. Not for nothing is my best friend a vampire.

As I filled the last bottle with dirt that shimmer of energy began to expand, curling out of the ground and spreading. Angling my head down to look over the tops of my glasses, I could see the disturbance it made in the air. A smudgy gray haze against the dark night, and whether it was ghost or spirit, benevolent or angry, I couldn’t tell yet.

I called out to Daniel. From the look on his face I could tell he’d felt it, even though he couldn’t see it yet. I put the bottle of dirt in my bag and pulled out a container of rock salt.

The haze started to coalesce into a shape, stretching up and out to form the suggestion of a man holding a guitar. I felt the music before I heard it, a low spike of energy that rumbled up from the ground and reached out. I felt it like a breeze against my face. A slow melody, then wind humming with it. It pulled at me, whatever it was. Gentle, friendly, lonesome and needing company. That’s all it wanted, company. That slow melody poured itself through me like a tonic. I felt a smile start to spread across my face as the salt slipped from my grasp, thudding softly on the ground. I took a step, delighted to find I could hear the music better. Another step, then another. The closer I got the better the music sounded and the more clearly I could see him. Long delicate fingers danced across the strings, his face shadowed by the hat sitting low on his head. He was just so lonesome, out here all by himself with no one to keep him company. I could stay for a little while, listen to him play. Another step. Two more. So close now I could reach out and touch him.

A hail of rock salt flew, pellets of it bouncing off my coat, landing in my hair. Most of it went at him. The music stopped with a shriek, his head snapping up and revealing a face full of horror. Skinless gray flesh hanging from bones, red eyes leaking black blood, mouth twisted in a rictus of anger. I screamed.

<- Part 5

Part 7 ->

Pics by me, taken in 2005.

Me and The Devil Blues is the song that introduced me to Robert Johnson and it's still my favorite to this day. But it wasn't his version I heard first, it was this cover by the Cowboy Junkies. I still love their version, too.

April News

2013-04-02T12:06:00.000-05:00

Some news to report on the writing front:

Freaktown has a new name: TRANCEHACK. We're done with developmental and line edits. Next up is copy edits, and probably soon cover art and official blurb. I've changed the book's page here to reflect the new title but for now I'm going to leave up my unofficial blurb. The release date is still unofficial as well, so I'm not going to post that yet. I like the new name. It highlights Calla's unusual magic abilities, so hopefully that will be a good way to catch the notice of readers.

The first draft of HOODOO WOMAN is finished. At eighty-two thousand words, it's definitely the longest of the Mojo books so far. Right now it's with a beta reader and I'm going to see if I can get anyone else to read it. I want to let it sit for a while before revising and preparing it to submit. I love the book and I think it's good, but I do know it's a bit of a risk for the series, so I don't know what will happen with it.

For the time being I'm going to take a few days off, then next week I'll start planning my next book. I've got a short story idea in the back of my head I might work on while outlining that next novel. And as usual when I'm between novels I might try writing contemporary again, since that's what sells, and I will no doubt fail as I always do. Ha!

On the personal front, my husband and I have been married eight years today. This is for him:

#fridayflash - Goofer Dust Blues, Part 5

2013-03-29T15:16:00.000-05:00

“Do I want to know what you’re drinking?”

Daniel was behind the wheel again as we drove to our first stop, Quito on Highway 7. The night was cold and clear. I wore jeans and a black wool pea coat, leather gloves and a thick scarf. Daniel wore loose khakis and a lightweight long sleeved dark tee shirt. Vampires don’t feel the cold like humans do. He had a travel mug in one hand and seemed to enjoy sipping from it just a little too much.

“Double shots of Grey Goose, Kahlua, Bailey’s, mixed with some O positive.” He quirked an eyebrow and grinned. “I call it a blood slide.”

I wrinkled my nose in disgust. “Dude, that’s nasty. Wait, you’re drinking alcohol while driving?”

“Hey, you know my metabolism is different. I’d need a whole lot more than this to get anywhere near the legal limit.”

“What if we get pulled over? You gonna explain your metabolism to a cop?”

He gave me a look.

“Oh, so you’ll just use your vampire mind whammy and say, this isn’t the drunk driver you’re looking for?”

He snorted laughter. “I told you, this won’t make me drunk. Besides, I’m a vampire. I’m supposed to do bad things.”

I shook my head as I pulled my messenger bag into my lap. “Just keep in mind, I’m the one going to a hospital if you crash this car.”

“You worry about the wrong things, Roxie.”

The headlights picked out the sign for Payne Chapel and Daniel pulled into the parking lot. I looked around, dismayed to find a couple of house trailers across the road from the church. I told Daniel to kill the lights. We got out, closing the doors quietly. The building was another small white country church, in better shape than some we’d seen because it looked to still be in use. We entered the cemetery and I pulled Blues Traveling out of my bag. I dug into my pocket for a tiny flashlight, thumbed it on and consulted the book.

“Where to?” Daniel said, taking a drink of his blood slide.

“Says it’s in the back, by the woods. It’s a flat marker so it may be hard to find.”

“Why don’t you take a look around.”

He meant without my glasses. He was taking his own look around, testing the dark with his enhanced hearing and vision and sense of smell. I planted my feet firmly on the cold earth, grounding myself, then lowered my glasses. I swept the cemetery, the church grounds, across the road and as far into the woods as I could see. My auric vision picked out nothing amiss. He crossed in front of me and his usual soft yellow, like sunshine on a spring morning, flowed from him in gentle waves. I pushed my glasses back up and gave him a nod. We set about looking for our first grave.

Photo by me, taken in 2005.

The marker was indeed flat, small, simple, with his name, birth and death dates, and the words resting in the blues. Also two lovely inscriptions in the top corners, a guitar in the left and a treble clef in the right. A handful of guitar picks were scattered across the marker and the ground around it. Daniel knelt, grasping a pick with preternatural ease. With his vampire night vision, he didn’t need my flashlight.

“It’s from Graceland,” he said.

I knelt opposite him, at about the width of what a grave would be. “So. Guess it’s time for me to start earning my money.” I pulled off my gloves and busied myself with taking supplies out of the messenger bag. The first thing I brought out was a clear glass bottle, an inch in diameter and three inches long, affixed with a label stating which cemetery its contents were from. I had two more in the bag. Next came a gardening trowel and a rag to wipe the dirt off my hands. I could start digging with the trowel, but the dirt for the goofer dust needed to be brought out of the ground with human hands.

“Is there some ceremony to this?” He stood, took another sip of his drink. “Some special words or anything?”

“No. I talked that over with the lawyer and his client didn’t specify anything like that. Just gathering ingredients isn’t the same as using magic.” I picked up the trowel.

“Good, cos if you were gonna shake a gourd and dance around I was gonna have to point and laugh.”
My only reply was an obscene hand gesture. He laughed and stepped a few feet away, giving me space to work.

I plunged the trowel into the ground, cutting through winter dead grass, struggling with the hard packed earth. Several inches in, I tossed the trowel aside. Sat there for a moment, hands on my knees. I reached for the bottle and put my hand in the small hole, scooping up dirt. I closed my hand into a loose fist over the mouth of the bottle to funnel the dirt inside, over and over until the bottle was full.

I twisted the cap on the bottle and replaced it in my bag. No ceremony was required for gathering ingredients, but an offering was never out of line. A little bottle of whisky, a shiny silver dime, and a pack of cigarettes came out of the bag next. I tore open the pack, shook one out, dropped it into the hole. After that went the dime. Then I opened one of the bottles and poured out the contents. I covered the hole, smoothing it as best I could so that hopefully it wouldn’t attract attention. I wiped my hands clean on the rag, put everything back in my bag and made my way to Daniel’s side.

“So that’s it, huh?”

“Yep.” I patted the bag. “One bottle of graveyard dirt down, two to go.”

We walked back to the SUV. “You think he’s here?”

I shook my head. “Not according to all the books. I didn’t feel anything, either.”

“What do you mean?”

“Seeing auras, sensing energy … it’s all part and parcel of the same thing. Not that I’m real sure of how to describe that thing.” He opened the passenger door for me and I climbed in. “When I put my hands in that earth, it was just earth. There was no …” I struggled for a way to explain what I’d felt. Or rather, what I hadn’t felt. “There was no vibration there, no energy beyond what you would expect from putting your hands in dirt. It’s kind of like the difference between sacred space and … ordinary space.”

“So basically, there was no disturbance in the Force?”

I laughed. “Right.”

Once in the vehicle he picked up the map from the dash and gave it a look. “Morgan City and Mount Zion Church is next, right?”

I nodded. “I’ve been wondering … you know so much about history and music, but you seem to have this gap. Before this you’d barely heard of Robert Johnson.”

“I wasn’t in the States in the thirties,” he answered. “I was in Europe. I was heavy into big band back then.”

“What were you doing in Europe in the thirties?” Hoping for juicy tales of espionage and intrigue.

“What all the cool kids were doing in Europe in the thirties and forties.” He leaned his head back a little, grinning wide to flash just a hint of fang. “Killin’ Nazis.”

“Dude! Share stories!”

He laughed and promised to share plenty. Some other time, of course.

<- Part 4

Part 6 ->

Author Spotlight: Lynn Cahoon

2013-03-25T05:00:00.000-05:00

Author Lynn Cahoon is here today. Welcome, Lynn!

What was your initial inspiration for this story?

A Member of the Council started out as an exercise in writing a paranormal novella. By the time I was done, the market I’d targeted had changed but I still loved the story. So I sent it to a publisher’s contest. I didn’t win the contest, but I won a contract!

Tell us about your favorite scene in the book, without giving too much away of course.

Ty and Parris meet during a dart match. I guess I’m partial to this meet cute because that was the way I met my husband. We sat and talked for hours and I fell in love just a bit that night.

What was the hardest part of the book to write, again without giving too much away?

The sex scenes. I skip over them when I’m reading and my characters seem to like to linger. So, it’s been a learning process for me.

How long have you been writing and how did you get your start in publishing?

I’ve been writing for about five years (give or take) but my debut book, The Bull Rider’s Brother came out in June 2012. I received a contract for BRB and A Member of the Council in the same week in March 2012. It was a good week.

Tell us a little about your writing process. Are you a pantser or a plotter, and if you’re a plotter what method works best for you?

Very much a pantser, but I’m trying to change my evil ways. I’m finding if I write a synopsis first, not one of those 30 pager a true plotter writes, but a simple 2-3 page plan, my writing goes faster. Even though I still change the plan mid stream.

What draws you to your genre?

I love writing small towns with a great cast of characters. And of course, a happy ever after. The one time I threw a book out the window after finishing it (figuratively, of course) was when I read a woman’s fiction that ended without even the possibility of HEA. I felt cheated.

Do you need silence while you write or do you listen to music? If you listen to music, what were you listening to while writing this book?

Music draws me away from my stories, if it’s country, I start singing along. But I can listen to my husband’s choice of songs and still get words down. As long as he doesn’t start playing the “Who is this?” game with me.

Do you put much of yourself into your characters? When you do, does that make it easier or harder to write them?

I don’t put myself into my characters, but I do use my experiences and feelings to bolster a character’s journey or arc. What did I feel like when I was betrayed? When I was sad? Reading over galleys for Return of the Fae, I realized I was projecting a feeling I had during the writing process into the words. I love my characters. I have no problem writing them.

What’s the most interesting thing you ever learned while doing research for a book, or the most fun you ever had with research?

Return of the Fae, Book 2 of the Council Series, is partially set in Cincinnati. When you read the story, you’ll find an interesting statue that’s actually in Fountain Square. My husband and I were visiting for his baseball team (Go Reds!) and the story just came together.

Tell us a little about your non-writing life. Do you have a day job, hobbies, pets that demand your slavish attention?

I have a day job that I commute 60 miles a day to and from. So lots of time for audio books and plotting. I have three dogs, a cat, and a very understanding husband who is waiting for me to become the next King or Roberts so he can devote his life to fishing.

Any projects on the horizon for readers to look for?

Return of the Fae releases July 1st (preview at -http://lyricalpress.com/return-of-the-fae/). I also have a novella coming out in April from Passion in Print – Temporary Roommates. And an organic farmer’s daughter (in-law) and the corporate seed heir hero – Marriage Not Included coming in May from Soul Mate Publishing.

A MEMBER OF THE COUNCIL

Lyrical Press - Kindle - Nook

A rogue hunter, a clueless witch and a mission to save an unknowing world.

Parris McCall, owner of the dive bar, The Alibi, has finally constructed a life where her little quirks don’t show or matter to anyone. As for her grandmother's warnings that she’s different, well, she'll cross that bridge if she comes to it. But when Ty walks into her bar, both lives are instantly changed.

Ty Wallace loves his life. How could he not? He’s a powerful human lawyer by day and the Magic Council's rogue witch hunter by night. But after he agrees to substitute on his secretary’s dart team, all hell breaks loose. Now Ty has to help Parris admit who she is before her long-lost relatives kill her.

About the author:

Lynn Cahoon is a contemporary romance author with a love of hot, sexy men, real and imagined. Her alpha heroes range from rogue witch hunters to modern cowboys. And her heroines all have one thing in common, their strong need for independence. Or at least that’s what they think they want.

Find out more at her website.

#fridayflash - Goofer Dust Blues, Part 4

2013-03-22T12:39:00.000-05:00

While Daniel stayed in his motel room I explored Clarksdale in the daylight. First up was the Delta Blues Museum, which was nowhere near as grand as it ought to be. I bought Daniel a t-shirt and myself a book and moved on to lunch next door at the Ground Zero Blues Club. As I sat there enjoying some of the best barbecue I’d had in recent memory, I made an effort to think of lots of ways to describe the food for Daniel. After lunch I walked slowly up Delta Avenue to browse at Cat Head Delta Blues and Folk Art. I spent quite a bit of time studying an ornate voodoo altar made with a collage of picture of blues singers and other strange items. There were crosses made of beer bottle caps and paintings of juke joint dancers and musicians adorning the walls. All great stuff, but what impressed me most were the gas can guitars, designed and stunningly painted by a bluesman named Super Chikan. This job was giving me a nice paycheck but even so, I still couldn’t afford one of those beauties. From there I drove past the Riverside Motel on Sunflower Avenue, which was a hospital in 1937 when Bessie Smith died there after a car accident. I drove out to Stovall Farms and walked over the spot where McKinley Morganfield lived when he drove a tractor for twenty-two and a half cents an hour, before taking a Greyhound to Chicago and changing his name to Muddy Waters. To my surprise I even found a church parsonage where Tennessee Williams lived as a child.

Gas can guitar made by Super Chikan, on display at the Ground Zero Blues Club.

There was still plenty of daylight left so I hit the highway after taking a quick look at the map. The drive took me south on Highway 61, soaking in the sunlight and RL Burnside blaring from the stereo. I passed long stretches of nothing, making it easy to imagine how lonesome this area must have been for an itinerant bluesman. I saw cotton fields, catfish farms, ancient country churches, a prosperous looking crop dusting service at a tiny airfield, a less prosperous looking little community called the Busting Loose Trailer Park.

Sometimes it deeply sucked that Daniel could not be out in the daylight.

I pulled over to check the map and my copy of Blues Traveling, popped a different CD into the stereo, and set off looking for the intersection of Highways 8 and 61. Junior Kimbrough’s Meet Me in the City serenaded me as I pulled into the turnoff at Dockery Farms.

Dockery Farms, one of the birth places of Delta Blues.

As near as the musicologists can tell Delta blues was born at Dockery. Charley Patton singing about High Water Everywhere sent ripples all across the Delta, the South, the bright lights of Chicago and the cold winds of Hibbing, Minnesota. Even across the Atlantic to teenagers like Eric Clapton and John Mayall, Keith Richards and Mick Jagger, Jimmy Page and Robert Plant. More than Delta blues came from this fertile Mississippi soil. As Muddy Waters famously said, the blues had a baby and they named it rock and roll.

I walked around the handful of buildings in this public area of Dockery Farms, with handsomely weathered barns and storage buildings, one of them sporting a world famous sign announcing the name of the property. My own education in the blues had slowly travelled backward through musical history. As a teenager I started with modern blues like Steve Ray Vaughn, Robert Cray, Clapton. Then further back, like tracing genealogy, to the Stones and Zeppelin. Getting hung up on Zeppelin for awhile before delving into Dylan, detouring into the Basement Tapes. BB and Muddy and Howlin’ Wolf and Jimmy Reed and everything from Chess Records I could get my hands on, hop-scotching to Sun and Stax. I had a pretty decent foundation for a little small town white bread girl by the time I got to Robert Johnson, but he still blew me away. I’d read one guitarist after another say when they first heard Robert they thought more than one guy was playing, with those long graceful fingers of his providing all the accompaniment he needed. An unearthly sound, to be sure, but supernatural in origin? Even with all the things I’d seen, I couldn’t form an opinion. Despite my ghost hunting experience, I had no knowledge of devils and demons. I knew plenty about obsession, though. I had no trouble imagining a man so possessed with desire for a thing he was willing to spend his nights practicing chords in a graveyard.

I’d spent plenty of nights alone in graveyards and other places, working hard to learn to control my ability to see auras and spectral energy so that it didn’t overwhelm me. Learning to use my glasses as a sort of shield. It was worth it to have control over my ability. Although I figured it was hardly fair to compare my little hill of beans with the troubles of a musical genius, I would have to guess all those hours in a graveyard at night were worth it to Robert. He got what he wanted and then some.

From Dockery I drove on to Ruleville and took Highway 49 north. I passed Parchman Farm, otherwise known as the Mississippi State Penitentiary. In Tutwiler I stopped to take a look at the giant mural painted on the side of what used to be a train depot, depicting when WC Handy first heard the blues in 1903 while waiting for a train. I stood out in the middle of train tracks that looked out of use, sipping from a bottle of water and shivering a little in the late winter air. There was a kind of desolate poverty in parts of Mississippi that I found shocking. This nearly empty little town brought it home for me. Such musical riches came from the Delta but unlike Nashville and Memphis, the state didn’t seem quite up to honoring that legacy or capitalizing on it for tourists dollars unless there was a casino involved. When I thought of how much of that music seemed to be about leaving the Delta though, it made a sort of poetic sense.

Part of the mural in Tutwiler depicting the first time WC Handy heard the blues in 1903.

Or maybe I just needed a meal and a nap. Checking my watch I saw it was late afternoon. Time to go. I wanted a few hours sleep before leaving for the first stop on our graveyard tour.

<- Part 3

Part 5 ->

All photos are mine, taken in 2005. I've been to all the places mentioned, some more than once. Traveling the Blues Highway is a great experience for a music lover.

#fridayflash - Goofer Dust Blues, Part 3

2013-03-15T00:00:00.000-05:00

Daniel’s big black SUV ate up the highway. I had hoped he’d want to road trip in his Miata, but no – he chose the mommy car. Our bags were in the back seat and a large cooler took up the back end. Watching that cooler go in the back, I knew that’s why he’d chosen the SUV. A cooler that size wouldn’t fit in a Miata, and you can’t exactly walk into a bar and order a pint of O Positive.

I had a route marked on a map but Daniel threw it aside and got us on a state highway as soon as he could. He was really digging this whole road trip thing. Wearing a porkpie hat that would have looked absurd on just about anyone else, he sang along with his sixties and seventies country music at sometimes headache inducing volume. The third time he played Tight Fittin’ Jeans, I dug my cheap little MP3 player out of my messenger bag and slipped in the headphones.

“Hey, now, what is that?” He pulled the earbud out of my ear. “Where’s your love for Conway?”

“About forty miles back by the side of the road,” I said. “Seriously, you’ve got to stop that, or I’m gonna have to give that lawyer his money back. Which would be awkward, seeing as how I’ve done spent some of it.”

He pushed stop on the CD player. “Fine. See if you can do better.”

I replaced Conway with King of the Delta Blues Singers, a collection of Robert Johnson’s blues released in the sixties. All it took was the slightest encouraging look from Daniel to get me started.

“This is it, right here,” I said, pointing at the stereo. Crossroad Blues filled the vehicle. “This is the album that put Robert on the map. Decades after he died, even.”

“This is what all those English kids that grew up to be rock gods listened to, right?”

I nodded. “They went to school on it. On the way he played guitar, the themes he wrote about. What little could be learned about the way he lived his life. He was a blueprint for both a journeyman blues player, and those rock gods that came later. Walking away from a normal life. Reaching out for something you’re told is a pipedream. Taking the scorn, the ridicule, the suspicion, all the other crap that people throw at you for wanting something that falls outside the norm … and throwing it right back. With a nice big middle finger.”

“People say they love a rebel,” I continued. “But really, they don’t. They say they love music and art and other creative abilities, but the truth is, if it’s anything beyond scrapbooking they’re suspicious of it. They don’t want to get too close to it, and they sure don’t want their kid dating someone who doesn’t have an office job with full benefits.”

“We still talking about music here?”

I laughed. It came out sounding harsher than I really felt. “I’m just saying, people don’t like what they don’t understand, and they don’t understand anything that’s too far outside whatever passes for normal with them.”
“What made him different?”

I smiled, about to delve into my favorite part of the Robert Johnson legend. “When he first started out trying to play in jukes, he’d pick up Son House’s guitar when Son would take a break. And he was awful! I mean, really terrible. He’d get run off the stage. This was up around Robinsonville. He went further south, to try to find his real father. He was born in Hazelhurst, illegitimate. Nobody knows if he ever found his father – if he did he never talked about it to anyone – but he did meet a man named Ike Zinnerman. According to the stories, this guy Ike taught him to play better, and had him go out to graveyards at night to practice.”

“That’s all kinds of creepy,” said Daniel with relish. “Why graveyards at night? Some kind of weird hoodoo thing?”

I shrugged. “Probably for the privacy. Robert stayed down there about a year, maybe two. When he went back up to the Delta, his guitar playing had completely transformed. Son House said Robert must have sold his soul to the devil to play that good.”

“This is where we get to the part about a crossroads at midnight, right?” Daniel was eager for the juicy parts of the story.

“There’s a sign marking where Highway 61 crosses Highway 49 in Clarksdale,” I said, speaking of the town that would be our first stop in Mississippi.

“Is that where it happened?”

Pic by me, taken in 2005.

I snorted. “That’s just there for the tourists.”

Daniel gave me a questioning look. I continued, “His playing had already improved by the time he came back up to the Delta. Which tells me that if this mythical crossroads existed – or at least the one Robert Johnson used – it’s somewhere down around Hazelhurst. That big sign in Clarksdale is for the tourists who don’t read their history close.”

“Has anybody ever tried to find the real crossroads?”

“I think a few have, maybe. I read once one of those English rockers found it and actually has a bottle of dirt from it.” That made me wonder again about the identity of Mr. Craig’s client.

“Why three different graves? How’d he die?”

“A jealous husband, most likely. Robert went through women like you go through shirts. A musicologist tracked down the man that poisoned him but nobody cared. Even the law. For a long time there wasn’t much more than rumor and innuendo known about Robert. I guess that’s how no one was sure exactly where he was buried.”

“And we have to go to all three?”

I looked out at the sharp car lights cutting through the dark highway. “He’s most likely buried in the latest place to make the claim, but yeah, we’re going to all three. That’s what the client’s paying for.”

Daniel drove in silence, letting the music play on. I drifted off to sleep and didn’t wake up until we pulled into a motel in Clarksdale, Mississippi.

<- Part 2

Part 4 ->

Sweet Baby Elvis, I freaking hate it - hate. it! - when people get it wrong about the location of the crossroads. Reading just a little bit of Robert's story should make it clear that any alleged crossroads would have been located in south Mississippi, not smack in the middle of Clarksdale. While the guitars hanging over the intersection of Highways 61 and 49 are a great photo-op for tourists, that's all they indicate. Okay, now I'm done being *that* music nerd. How about a couple songs...

Author Spotlight: Mae Clair

2013-03-14T07:00:00.000-05:00

Author Mae Clair is here today. Welcome, Mae!

What was your initial inspiration for this story?

I’ve been a fan of David Soul from the time I was a teen. A number of years ago I was searching through online movie databases when I happened upon a photo of him in a Union officer’s uniform (from the movie Manions of America). That was the first spark of inspiration in creating WEATHERING ROCK.
I like American history, particulary the Civil War period, so I decided to create a story revolving around a flawed but noble character. His name came almost immediately--Colonel Caleb DeCardian. Naturally, I had to complicate matters by making him a werewolf who time travels to the present. Arianna Hart, my heroine, is the woman he falls for and who challenges his 19th century mindset!

Tell us about your favorite scene in the book, without giving too much away of course.

My heroine‘s BFF holds a costume party where all of the major characters in the book converge. I loved describing the setting and the costumes. To liven things up, there’s a romantic encounter, a fistfight, a shocking discovery and a supernatural shower of ball lightning. Definitely a lot going on at that party, LOL.

What was the hardest part of the book to write, again without giving too much away?

The time travel loop. It has multiple facets to it, and took a lot of headache-inducing logic to figure out how everything factored together. I went through a lot of Tylenol while working out the intricacies. :D

How long have you been writing and how did you get your start in publishing?

I wrote my first story when I was six, my first novel when I was fifteen. It wasn’t until 2012 that I decided to get serious and finally submit something. I hadn’t planned on jumping in so early in the year, but fate intervened and made the decision for me. I heard Piper Denna, editor for Lyrical Press was taking pitches on the Word Wranglers blog, so I took a chance. I was fortunate to have WEATHERING ROCK accepted the first time out, though I had to trim the size by 15,000 words.

Tell us a little about your writing process. Are you a pantser or a plotter, and if you’re a plotter what method works best for you?

Definitely a panster, though I always make a few notes before I start a new project. It gives me a framework on which to build. I always develop characters first, and then decide on plot. The story generally develops as I write

What draws you to your genre?

That’s a tough one because I like multiple genres and write in multiple genres although I’ve only published romance to date. The most important aspect in any genre for me is the characters. It doesn’t matter if I’m writing/reading romance, mysteries, YA, thrillers, or something else entirely. As long as I care for the characters, I’ll happily camp out in the genre.

Do you need silence while you write or do you listen to music? If you listen to music, what were you listening to while writing this book?

I generally prefer silence, but I do listen to music occasionally. When I do, it’s always instrumental, usually something in the new age genre. Lyrics distract me. When I’m done with a project, I sometimes make a mix of music I feel relates to the characters and story.

Do you put much of yourself into your characters? When you do, does that make it easier or harder to write them?

There is a small portion of me that funnels through in certain characters—personality quirks, likes and dislikes--but, for the most part, I try to distant myself from my characters. By the same token, I never write a character that resembles anyone I know. I’m strangely freaky about that.

What’s the most interesting thing you ever learned while doing research for a book, or the most fun you ever had with research?

I think that has yet to come. I’m currently in beginning stages of planning a mystery/romance revolving around the legend of the Mothman, a creature that was seen by numerous witnesses in the town of Point Pleasant, West Virginia in the mid-1960s. Because I want a good grasp of the history and setting when I start writing, I’m hoping to visit the town in the near future. It’s the first time I’ve planned a trip around a research project for a book and I’m looking forward to it.

Tell us a little about your non-writing life. Do you have a day job, hobbies, pets that demand your slavish attention?

I’m married to my high school sweetheart and work full-time. I’ve spent 20+ years in the real estate industry, hold a PA real estate license, and specialize in marketing and administration. I lost my cat, Onyx, last year so am presently without a pet, but am a lifelong friend of felines. My husband and I hope to do some travelling over the next several years, then settle down with a cat again in the future.

Please share with us a favorite guilty pleasure that helps you unwind after a long day of writing/revising/editing, whether it’s a decadent food or a strong drink or a cheesy TV show.

The thing I love to do best is read each night before falling asleep. It really helps me unwind. I’m not much of a TV watcher, though I love Sherlock, Merlin and, most especially, Once Upon a Time. I rarely watch any of the shows when they’re on, but make sure I DVR what I can.

Any projects on the horizon for readers to look for?

I have a new Lyrical Press release coming in August called TWELFTH SUN. It’s an older woman/younger man romance/mystery that revolves around a treasure hunt for a marine artifact. I love the characters, especially my hero, Dr. Elijah Cross, a twenty-five year old marine archeologist who falls for Reagan Cassidy, my thirty-five year old heroine. She, however, is not immediately smitten, LOL.

I’m also putting the finishing touches on a romance/mystery called ECLIPSE LAKE which should be ready for submission before the end of the month. It involves two bitterly estranged brothers, a free-spirited photojournalist, and a fifteen-year-old unsolved murder that embroils them all.

I truly appreciate the opportunity to visit your blog, Sonya. Thanks so much for having me today and for letting me ramble about writing and WEATHERING ROCK. I loved being here!

WEATHERING ROCK

Lyrical Press - Kindle - Nook - iBooks

Drawn together across centuries, will their love be strong enough to defeat an ancient curse?

Colonel Caleb DeCardian was fighting America’s Civil War on the side of the Union when a freak shower of ball lightning transported him to the present, along with rival and former friend, Seth Reilly. Adapting to the 21st century is hard enough for the colonel, but he also has to find Seth, who cursed him to life as a werewolf. The last thing on Caleb’s mind is romance. Then fetching Arianna Hart nearly runs him down with her car. He can’t deny his attraction to the outspoken schoolteacher, but knows he should forget her.

Arianna finds Caleb bewildering, yet intriguing: courtly manners, smoldering sensuality and eyes that glow silver at night? When she sees Civil War photographs featuring a Union officer who looks exactly like Caleb, she begins to understand the man she is falling in love with harbors multiple secrets--some of which threaten the possibility of their happiness.

Finding a decent guy who'll commit is hard enough. How can she expect Caleb to forsake his own century to be with her?

About the author:

Mae Clair opened a Pandora’s Box of characters when she was a child and never looked back. Her father, an artist who tinkered with writing, encouraged her to create make-believe worlds by spinning tales of far-off places on summer nights beneath the stars. She snagged the tail of a comet, hitched a ride, and discovered her writer’s Muse on the journey.

Mae loves creating character-driven fiction in settings that vary from contemporary to mythical. Wherever her pen takes her, she flavors her stories with conflict, romance and elements of mystery. Married to her high school sweetheart, she lives in Pennsylvania and is passionate about writing, old photographs, a good Maine lobster tail and cats.

Mae can be found at her website, blog, Twitter, Facebook, and Goodreads.

Random Update

2013-03-11T07:00:00.000-05:00

Er, I forgot to do a February update. Well, it was a short month anyway. ;)

The developmental edits for, er, whatever FreakTown winds up being called are completed. It was hard work but worth it. The things my editor Jeff Seymour had me work on definitely made it a better book. I didn't think it was possible but I'm even more excited about the book now than I already was. Next up is line edits and copy edits and at some point a new title.

As for the current work in progress, Hoodoo Woman is just a couple hundred words shy of 75k. That makes it the longest Mojo book to date, and I'm not quite finished. I'm still not very good at estimating word count so I can't guess how much longer it will be, but it's getting very, very close. The other day I joked that the book had entered the carpal tunnel phase. The pain in my wrists is no joke, though. When I was writing FreakTown and had this problem, my doctor said it was part of the pregnancy. Well, that's not the case now! I'm going to have to do some research about how to handle this so that it stays a joke and doesn't become a serious problem. Dictation software is not something I'm remotely interested in - it would not work with my thinking and writing process. I'm also not interested in relearning how to type on a keyboard with the keys in a different place. My best bet is probably a wireless ergonomic keyboard. I told my husband he could get me that for Mother's Day. Or Supernatural on Blu-Ray, whichever. :)

I can't remember if I announced this on the blog but I'll have my first anthology release later this year. My short story Musicmage will appear in Dark Harvest, released by Dark Continents Publishing and edited by Nerine Dorman. This is a project I'm pretty excited about. For one thing, I was invited to participate, which is so very cool, and for another, I just really love this little story. It's about magic, of course, and music, of course, and, well, I just love it. So that's really cool and I look forward to its release.

My personal assistant is keeping things exciting. The other day I put her down for a nap and went to check on her after a few minutes when I could still hear her babbling. She had worked herself into a sitting position! She's been sitting up for a while but this was the first time she did it on her own. We're still waiting on teeth and crawling. Here's a pic from this weekend:

I had two picked out for possible inclusion and asked my husband for his opinion. In one she looked thoughtful, in the other maniacal. Of course he went with maniacal. :) She was babbling up a storm when this was taken. Sometimes she bops her head as if keeping time with music only she can hear. I've joked about there being pixies in the house now that only she can see (which would explain the occasional tiny flash of glitter that will show up in random spots on the carpet or the furniture). I like the idea that she has brought her own magic into the house.

#fridayflash - Goofer Dust Blues, Part 2

2013-03-07T22:16:00.000-06:00

< - Part 1

I met my best friend Daniel* at an Indian restaurant downtown shortly after dark. Not that he ate, being a vampire, but he was a bit of foodie and enjoyed the smells of good food and whatever descriptions I could give him of the taste. I filled up my plate at the buffet and joined him at our corner table.

Dark blond hair, blue eyes, an athletic build and a movie star’s face, Daniel always drew attention, even sitting in a corner in a low-lit restaurant. As I took my seat I noticed a woman ignoring her date and checking out Daniel like he was the daily special. I was sure he noticed, but he didn’t act like he did. Instead, he started questioning me about my new case. Again.

“Are you sure this is a good idea? It doesn’t sound very safe to me.” He sipped his sweet tea and looked over my plate.

“It’s not like I’ve never been in a graveyard at night.”

“Yeah, but that far away from home. What if something happens and you need help?”

“What could happen? You expecting hellhounds to come after me? I’ll be fine.”

He shook his head, lips pursed in disapproval. “No, I don’t think this is a good idea. It’s too dangerous.”

I dropped my fork on the plate in frustration. “Why are you being such a killjoy about this? I’m a grown-up, I can take care of myself.”

“I know you can take care of yourself. This isn’t your usual thing, though. We’re not talking about a ghost playing tricks in somebody’s house. We’re talking about demons, Roxie.”

Daniel had a habit of getting over-protective, and it could be real damn annoying. “I seriously doubt there are any demons hanging around Mississippi graveyards at night. If I run into anything, it’ll be teenagers out partying.”

He leaned closer, his expression intense. “You’re talking about disturbing the grave of a man who made a deal with a demon. That doesn’t sound like a lark to me, Roxie.”

“Oh, come on…”

“No, you come on. You’ve never had any dealing with this sort of thing. I know you’ve seen a lot of ghosts. Seen some other things, too. But never anything like this. This is not even in the same zip code as dealing with ghosts.”

“I have no intention of standing in some crossroads and summoning a demon. I’m just gonna go dig in the dirt a little. Really, I’m not worried. Not in the least.”

He sat back in his chair. I continued eating, making short work of the curry chicken. I wasn’t lying to Daniel. I really didn’t think anything would happen. It might be creepy as hell, but that’s pretty much my stock in trade. I didn’t believe any demons would be making an appearance. For one thing, there would be no reason for it. Collecting a little graveyard dirt was a far cry from a summoning rite.

Daniel broke into a smile. “You said you have to do this at night, right?”

I nodded. “Yeah, the guy wants it done at night under a dark moon and no way are you going with me. I do not need a babysitter.”

“Oh, come on. It’ll be fun. It’s been a long time since I did a road trip. We can drive at night, I can stay indoors during the day.”

“No.”

“It’s winter. Nice long nights. Hey, how late you do suppose Graceland stays open?”

I pictured Daniel shopping for crazy souvenirs, surrounded by blue haired old ladies and foreign tourists. If there was only one limited edition Elvis teddy bear in a gold lame suit left, who would win that fight?
“I’m not even going through Memphis. You know I hate to drive in Memphis.”

“Back roads, huh? Well, that’s even better.”

I knew I’d already lost so I didn’t fight it. Daniel never used his vampire mind whammy on me but even so he could be damned persuasive. And persistent. And really, it probably wouldn’t be that bad. Might even be fun.

“So we leave day after tomorrow?” I nodded. He was in full planning mode now. “Come by the house right before sunset then. We’ll leave from there. Make sure you check what the weather’s going to be like so you pack appropriately.”

“Yes, momma.”

He ignored the dig. “It’s winter but it’s late winter and the weather can be unpredictable. Probably a little warmer since we’re going further south. Oh, and bring some CDs for when it’s your turn to drive.”

I gave him the eyebrow. “Driver chooses the music, huh?”

“Of course,” he said, throwing his hands wide. “I just got a new Conway Twitty greatest hits. I will be sure to bring that.”

“Oh boy,” I said, grinning, suddenly feeling a little queasy at the thought of hours in the car with Daniel and his classic country CD collection.

Part 3 ->

This week's musical selection, Kind Hearted Woman. I've always loved the line, "she's a kind hearted woman, studies evil all the time."

* If you're not familiar with my Mojo series, Daniel is Roxie's ancestor. She doesn't know it yet in this story but she does in the first book. I need to write the story of how she finds out. I'm pointing this out because I think my brains would leak out of my ears if anyone suggested they would make a great couple! Ha. Although Daniel is awesome...

#fridayflash - Goofer Dust Blues, Part 1

2013-02-28T22:17:00.000-06:00

Goofer Dust Blues is another Mojo short story, and if it weren't for this one the Mojo series wouldn't exist. I had about half of what became Mojo Queen written when I ran into trouble and stopped to write a short story to help me get to know the characters. I wound up posting it as a free read on my first (long since deleted) website, and my first editor at Lyrical Press, Nerine Dorman, read it. Nerine saw something in it she wanted more of and let me know, so I untangled my problems with the manuscript as quick as I could and submitted Mojo Queen. Goofer Dust Blues itself is a bit of a valentine to the blues, the places that gave it shape in Mississippi, and my long-time obsession, the man I like to call the Big Bad Hoodoo Daddy of the Blues, Robert Johnson. For Friday Flash purposes I've managed to break it down into eight parts, some of them a bit over the usual word count limit, some under. I hope you enjoy, feel free to take a look at the Mojo series if you like it, and most of all - thank you, Nerine! Thank you so much!

GOOFER DUST BLUES

I pegged the guy for a lawyer as soon as he strolled in the door. His handmade suit looked way too nice for this neighborhood. I put down my paperback and sat up straighter, adjusted my glasses, hoping I didn’t have any rips in the old flannel shirt I was wearing. I don’t often get people that look this prosperous here at the office. Not that the rich don’t ever find themselves being haunted, cursed, or stalked by overzealous brownies, but when they hire me they usually want me to come to them. Just wouldn’t do to be seen walking into a place labeled Mathis Paranormal Investigations. I might have expected attitude from someone like him, especially if he was a lawyer dispatched to do something a client found distasteful. This guy, though, had the attitude of a kid on a field trip to the zoo.

“Miss Mathis, I presume.” He greeted me with cheer and an English accent, extending his hand and smiling.

“That’s right,” I said, rising from the sofa and shaking his hand. I offered him coffee and a place to sit, both of which he accepted. I set about making the coffee and asked, “What can I do for you?”

He pulled a business card from inside his suit jacket and placed it on the coffee table. “My name is Geoffrey Craig. I’m an attorney, and I represent a client who would like to contract your services.”

I took a seat opposite Mr. Craig, waiting for the coffee to brew. “Who’s your client?”

“No one local.” He glanced around the office, clearly curious. “Discretion is very important to my client. Very. I do hope it won't be a problem, dealing only with me.”

I shrugged. “It would depend on what you hire me to do. I take it I wouldn’t be going to the client’s house?”

Mr. Craig smiled, the corners of his eyes wrinkling. “No, this isn’t about a haunting or anything like that. Though I daresay my client might quite enjoy having a ghost as a house guest.”

I laughed, keeping my opinion to myself. A ghost for a house guest was usually about as much fun as a rabid cat for a house guest.

The lawyer continued. “My client just needs you to acquire something for him. That’s all. Very simple, really.”

Yeah, right. “Okay. What is it?” The coffee finished brewing and I got up to make two cups.

“It’s, um, sort of a curio item.” For the first time he sounded unsure of himself, as if he couldn’t quite believe he was having to do this. “You come highly recommended for both your discretion, and for dealing with things of this … special nature.”

“Milk and sugar?”

“Both, please.”

“Mr. Craig, I am a paranormal investigator. I’ve seen ghosts and poltergeists, credible evidence of reincarnation, and a sasquatch femur bone.” Plus a few other things I wasn’t going to tell him about. I placed a cup in front of him and sat. “You don’t have to tiptoe around things with me. You won’t shock me, or scare me.”

“Do you know what goofer dust is?”

I choked on my coffee and fought the urge to grab some salt and pour myself a protective circle. “Uh, yeah,” I said, hoping he didn’t notice my loss of composure.

From the look he gave me, though, I could tell he had. “My client would like you to formulate a bottle of goofer dust, with certain specific ingredients.”

Okay, I was wrong – he could shock me. “What specific ingredients?”

Mr. Craig took a long drink of his coffee, looking like he wished there was something stronger than milk and sugar in it. “My client is willing to compensate you quite handsomely for your time, your efforts, and all travel expenses.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“It’s my understanding the prime ingredient of this … substance is dirt from graves.”

I nodded.

Mr. Craig closed his eyes for the briefest of seconds, then plunged ahead. “My client would like you to use dirt from the graves of a specific person.”

Both eyebrows went up this time. The graves of a specific person … oh hell no. One person, with multiple graves. There’s no way this could be what I thought it was.

“My client would like you to use dirt from the graves of a man named Robert Johnson.”

Holy crap – it was exactly what I thought it was. Who the hell was this guy’s client? And how many of their albums did I own?

“My client has determined that the best time to do this would be in a few days time, when the moon is dark. After midnight, of course.”

I blinked, finally able to speak. “You want me to gather graveyard dirt, after midnight, under a dark moon? From the graves of Robert Johnson?” What I didn’t say was, are you freaking kidding me? “You know that stuff is bad, right? You can use this in killing spells.”

“If one were to believe in that sort of thing,” said Mr. Craig with a slight smile. “But I can assure you my client does not. He’s merely a collector of odd and unusual items.”

“I don’t know,” I said, shaking my head.

Mr. Craig leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “What would you think if I told you this wasn’t even the strangest thing in my client’s collection? Or the most, ah, potentially lethal? I’m quite certain he could do quite a bit of damage with the handful of very rare grimoires in his library. And yet he does not. As I said, my client is a collector, Miss Mathis, not a practitioner.”

He pulled a folded sheet of paper from inside his suit jacket, handed it to me. I took it with reluctance. “Here is a list of the other ingredients my client believes would be needed in the substance. And the sum of the contents of an envelope in my pocket.”

I opened the sheet, scanned the ingredients without really reading them, eyes just about popping out at the sight of the number written at the bottom of the page.

With a smile Mr. Craig said, “Another envelope with the same sum will be yours once you hand over the goofer dust.”

It took me all of two seconds to make my decision. “You know, it’s funny. I get paid in cash so much you’d think I was running some kind of sex business.”

He laughed. “I know exactly what you mean, Miss Mathis. Really, I do.”

I just bet he did. I told him to call me Roxie, and took his client’s envelope full of cash.

Part 2 ->

For added fun and musical nerdery I thought I'd include with each post a Robert Johnson original and a cover version by various artists, starting with one of my favorites, Malted Milk.

Author Spotlight: Joanne Wadsworth

2013-02-25T07:00:00.000-06:00

Today I'm pleased to welcome fellow Lyrical Press author Joanne Wadsworth to the blog to talk about one of the locations featured in her Young Adult romance, PROTECTOR.

Let me introduce you to New Zealand’s Hot Water Beach. Above is a picture of one of the most isolated and unusual beaches in the world, and being a Kiwi writer, I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to bring these kinds of locations to you in my new release.

Hot Water Beach is as good as its name. Yes, it’s a beach where if you arrive two hours before or after low tide, you can bring a spade and hollow out a hole which fills with natural hot water. What? It’s true. The hot water actually seeps up from below and through the sand to fill the hole, so you can dig a hole as big as you want and get that fabulous spa experience, all without having to pay a cent.

Above in the picture is a snapshot of people doing just that, and this beach is one of my favorite spots. I love taking a dip in the ocean, then warming up afterwards in my very own hot water pool. Yep, gotta love that.
So, how does this phenomenon happen?

New Zealand sits on the Pacific Rim of Fire, which sounds scary, but in actual fact it isn’t. It just means we have a lot of deep underground reservoirs of superheated water and with it unusual geothermal activity like what happens at Hot Water Beach. Here at this beach there are two springs which the hot water escapes up from far below the surface. The water cools on its way up, and once hitting the surface, only comes forth if you dig for it. That’s what makes this beach so unique. A little digging, and the hot water rises. It certainly makes for a wonderful experience if you’re ever in my neck of the woods to come and see.

It’s also this uniqueness to my country which drew my interest in using various locations like this one in my new release. PROTECTOR is a young adult, fantasy romance, and within my book, I get to bring you here, to a place I hold close to my heart. You’ll get to join me and a hot cast of characters for a wonderful little taste of New Zealand.

Here’s more of a peek at my book.

PROTECTOR

Lyrical Press - Kindle - Nook - iBook

Blurb:

To love and protect…across worlds.

Eighteen-year-old Faith Stryker is prepared to leap out into the unknown world beyond her home shores of New Zealand to experience life. Only she never expected to encounter Magio, a planet with two warring countries, where its people reach adulthood at eighteen by coming into their strength and prophetic abilities. Only after Faith discovers she’s a Halfling--thanks to her warrior father she’s never met--does her own skill of forethought develop.

Peacio’s Prince Davio Loveria is sent to the young Faith Stryker by his grandfather, but not all goes as planned. Davio discovers Faith isn’t just a Halfling, she’s also his soul-bound mate--an intense relationship he cannot, nor will not, give up.

With two wars now waging…one of land and the other of the heart…can the young lovers find their place in the world?

Excerpt:

Davio leaned over me, all six foot four of him, his warm honey-brown hair falling forward to curl snugly around his neck, and I longed for him, just as I had during my first sighting of him in the classroom.

“What’s happening is the bond, my mate. It will become difficult for me to keep my distance both physically and emotionally unless I leave and end this now.”

My heart hitched. “You want to leave?” I swayed closer on impulse. “Is that how this bond works? We find each other and then you leave?” God preserve his people if it did.

“No, it is not. Those mated are bonded for life if we allow the link to grow. Except that would be the most unwise choice for us to take. You are, quite clearly, neither from my country nor from my world, and as such will have no allegiance to me or my people. I have no wish to join with one who does not wish to join with me in all ways. With that being the case, I will find another when the time is right. As should you,” he added solemnly.

I frowned. Hold on--did he just say he would be joining with another woman?

I bit my tongue. That was good? I should leave it at that, right?

Jeez, what was wrong with me for questioning that choice?

“I’m sorry. We just met, and you’re right. Go find your, your--” Strangely, I struggled to get the words out and finally gave up. “Well, have yourself a nice long life, and all that.” I patted his chest roughly.

That was more like me.

The clock ticked and time slowed.

He didn’t move.

“Look at me.” He tipped up my chin, directly staring at me. “This would never work.”

“I understand. It’s been pretty awful meeting you too.” I leaned back, only to feel the pressure of his hand move around my waist to the small of my back, preventing me.

I moved to grip his arm. “Okay, you were going.”

About the author:

Reading romance books captivated Joanne Wadsworth as a teenager, particularly when she tucked herself into bed at night and continued to dream those stories as she slept. She'd visualize the direction, taking the hero and heroine on an adventure unparalleled to what she'd read. Today she is devoted to writing romance, bringing her imagination to life within the lines of young adult, and thrilling romantic suspense.

Born in New Zealand, Joanne works both as a writer and a financial controller, all while keeping up with her four energetic children and dreamy husband.

Find out more about Joanne at her website, Twitter, and Facebook.

A Magic Far Beyond

2013-02-12T16:31:00.003-06:00

Professor emeritus of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry Jimmy Page can be seen in this video giving a lesson on music wizardry to the cleverest musicmage of his age Jack White and visiting muggle Edge.

Heh. But seriously, It Might Get Loud is a fantastic documentary for music fans, especially fans of Page and White. I am a U2 fan as well but I have to admit, Edge was out of his league in this company. One of the many things that struck me while watching this is how magnificently Page fits the role of sorcerer musician as I've always seen it in my head. Look at that coat! The way he sways with the curve and bend of the song's rhythm. And his hair - that's a head of hair you'd imagine seeing on a magician. To my knowledge Page has never written or given an interview about his magical practices/beliefs back in the days when he was known for having an interest in the occult and living in Aleister Crowley's old home. Now that would be a rock bio I'd love to read! Or even better, write. Mr Page, I'm available to work as your biographer should you be interested. But since that's unlikely to happen, perhaps one day I'll write my own fictional version of an elder sorcerer who wields a guitar rather than a wand to cast spells, who takes on a gifted, intense young apprentice prone to losing himself in the music/magic and obsessed with the blues.

Hogwarts headmaster Albus Dumbledore once referred to music as "a magic far beyond" what was taught at the school. I've long seen a connection between the two, music and magic, considering them both combinations of science (technique, practice, skill) and art (the intuitive leap into the unknown). An act of magic can cause change - so too can a song. How often has your mood been altered by hearing a piece of music at the right time? Attending a concert can leave you feeling transported, the live music lifting you to another realm, the crowd's energy creating a feedback loop with that of the musicians on stage so that it feels like a group rite of celebration in some dark corner of the night. And like a spell, music can chase your demons away, or invite them in for a long chat, depending on your purpose. There's a strange, indefinable power to music, and if that doesn't count as magic I don't know what does.

Science, Art, and Magic

2013-02-05T22:51:00.000-06:00

Magic 3 by ~Ameliy on deviantART

What is magic, and what is it not? That may sound like a dumb question but stick with me. Let's start with what magic is not.

It is not a band-aid for plot problems. It is not a cure-all for when you write yourself into a corner and can't figure out how to fix it. It is not a deus ex machina. If you want magic to serve in that capacity in your fiction, by all means do so. Just don't be surprised when readers used to books with a little more thought to them file yours as DNF (did not finish) on their Goodreads profiles.

So what is magic? I love this quote by Aleister Crowley:

Magick is the Science and Art of causing Change to occur in conformity with Will.

(Illustration: It is my Will to inform the World of certain facts within my knowledge. I therefore take "magickal weapons", pen, ink, and paper; I write "incantations" — these sentences — in the "magickal language" ie, that which is understood by the people I wish to instruct; I call forth "spirits", such as printers, publishers, booksellers and so forth and constrain them to convey my message to those people. The composition and distribution of this book is thus an act of Magick by which I cause Changes to take place in conformity with my Will.)

If you don't know who Crowley was, don't worry. We'll get to that in a later post. Let's take a look at the quote. Magick is the Science and Art of causing Change to occur in conformity with Will. To me, that sentence means everything when it comes to magic. (Some use the k to distinguish stage magic from what we're talking about. I'm neutral on that, spell it however you want.) You want to be a writer. It is your Will to be published, so to cause a small, half-formed idea to Change into a novel - not just a novel but a publishable novel - you employ Science - everything you've ever learned about plotting, characterization, grammar, sentence structure, setting, subplots, themes, all the tools of the trade - and Art - the rhythm of language, the spontaneous ideas that come to you while engaged in something as mundane as washing the dishes, the barely remembered snatches of dreams that fall onto the page, the altered mental state that occurs when you are deep in the story and time and space have lost all meaning. We weave a spell as we write and yes, there is structure to it. Shape and form. Rules, even. But there is also art.

Aside: don't let anyone tell you it's not art because it's genre. I have no time for snobs and you shouldn't either.

Back to magic: I was writing about magic before I figured out writing itself was a form of magic. I honestly can't remember what it was that drew me to magic. Some people like to write about vampires. I've done that too. For others it's shapeshifters. Also done that. But it's magic I come back to, magic that endlessly fascinates me, for whatever reason. When I decided to use magic as a central feature in my first novel (trunked, never to see the light of day), I didn't want to be half-assed about it so I started doing research. I didn't know much but I knew I didn't want to use magic as that deus ex machina get out of jail free card, so I needed to understand how stuff worked. I needed to get a handle on the science before exploring the art.

In subsequent posts I'll get into the elements, various types of magic, famous magicians both in real life and fiction. I also plan to talk about another powerful form of magic - music. And of course my thoughts on combining science and art to create magic in your fiction that will leave readers, ahem, spellbound. (Sorry, easy joke.)

If you can think of any topics you'd like covered please feel free to say so in the comments.

A Magical Excerpt From The WIP

2013-01-30T07:00:00.000-06:00

The third Mojo book, HOODOO WOMAN, is at forty-five thousand words and going strong and steady. Roxie has gone home, asked by her old love Deputy Ray Travis (who is introduced in a scene in RED HOUSE) to help the spirit of a dead girl find rest by solving her murder. This book is going in some surprising directions. If my editor doesn't hate the changes (*fingers crossed*) then I plan to write two more, giving Roxie a nice five-book run. (Again, *fingers crossed*.) I've even got tentative titles for the next books: HOWLING FOR YOU and SEASON OF THE WITCH.

With the way things were left at the end of RED HOUSE, I had to figure out where to take Roxie, magically speaking. Her new supernatural assistant was created/conjured in the chaos of a storm, so I got to thinking about how that might change Roxie's magical practice. She's never been one for formal ceremonial magic. Chanting and fancy robes and all kinds of paraphernalia set out in the correct directions and correspondences - whew. There's a lot to that. If you're going to write about magic then you need to learn all that so you have a basis in how things work, but I wouldn't suggest sticking to it unless there's a very specific plot-related reason for it. No one wants to read about your character chanting for six hours. I've talked before about choosing hoodoo as the basis for Roxie's magic but I don't think I've talked much about Chaos magic. A very basic definition of Chaos would be: if it works, use it. (That definition is as basic as it gets. I would strongly suggest doing some research before bringing it into your own fiction. This group of articles at the Internet Sacred Text Archive is a good place to start.) I looked into Chaos because I thought it would be a good fit for Blake, but as I've written more and more in this world I think it's actually a good fit for Roxie as well. Her magic still has a foundation in hoodoo and its rootwork and other trappings, but she's also been known to send a "hex message" on a cellphone and now she's branching out even further afield. Here's a short excerpt to give you a taste:

Fat drops of rain hit my skin like coins. The wind turned my hair into a tangled flag. Energy rolled through the night, calling to the magic that dwelled deep inside. I planted my feet firmly in the wet grass, raised my hands high to touch the sky. Magic above, magic below, my body a conduit between the two sources. More than my body, everything that was me. The storm intensified, lashing me with its power. Stack, my supernatural assistant, once acted as a buffer when we first started this. Now he rode the lightning and thunder like a madman, his laughter howling right along with the wind.

I let the storm shake me, raised my face in welcome to the rain. Blue-white lightning danced in the sky, but too far away. The storm would get closer in time, and be strong enough to shatter every nerve in my body. It seethed in my auric vision like a live thing, which of course it was. Anything with that much energy is alive, if not entirely sentient. The storm and I spoke to each other on a cellular level, in some wordless language that went beyond spells and incantations. It called to me and I gave a response.

Lightning cracked open the dark, filling my auric vision with a whipsaw of violet. I screamed under the onslaught. The bolt hit the ground close enough for me to feel the sizzle through the soles of my shoes. Magic wrapped around me in spirals of energy. I drew it in with a breath.
The rain calmed to a steady shower rather than a frantic downpour. I relaxed my stance, whirling my arms. Light flew from my fingertips in thin streamers, the blue-white of the lightning I'd captured. I painted the dark night with it, laughing.

Recently I realized that for someone who fills their fiction with magic, I don't write about it much here on the blog. Is that something you think you'd be interested in? My aim for the blog this year is one post a week and I think it would be fun to devote some of those posts to magic. I'd love to hear your thoughts in the comments.

January Update

2013-01-23T08:00:00.000-06:00

It's been a while since I did a general update sort of post so here goes.

Last night I posted this on Facebook despite it being way too long for a status update and thought it was worth sharing here:

A year ago I was pregnant and deep into writing FreakTown. Today I took my six month old to the post office where we mailed off the contract for that book. If she wants to read it when she's old enough, I'll tell her I wrote the book because of her. I'll tell her that it was a time when I was tempted to write what I thought might sell, instead of a story I believed in telling. That I was tempted to write something easy, because I was pregnant and nauseated and tired all the time. That I was tempted to quit writing altogether because it seemed pointless with my books not selling and nothing resulting from all the hard work I'd put into this. But that wasn't the kind of mother I wanted to be, the kind of person I wanted this baby to know, so I wrote a book that was different and off-kilter and not quite a perfect fit in any of the usual genre definitions, a book I didn't think had much chance of finding a home. I wrote it anyway because I wanted my baby to know that sometimes the only way to get where you're going is to make your own path, and even if you wind up going nowhere the journey is worth it - your independence and integrity are worth it. If it did nothing but sit on my hard drive I'd be proud of this book. But it found a publisher, although that's no guarantee it will find readers, and I hope one day she does read it and is proud of it too. Even if she says to me, "Oh god, Mom, you're not supposed to write *those* kind of scenes! Now I'm scarred for life! Buy me a car to make up for it!" So, today was a good day.

At least I didn't break down crying in the post office. I'm sure if I hunted I could find blog posts from those difficult months when I struggled with what to write, or whether to bother writing at all. I don't feel like reading them right now, I don't need the reminder of how badly I felt like a failure. My books may never find a wide readership and I may never make much money from writing, but I feel like I've found a way to tell the kinds of stories I want to tell that will at least give them a shot at finding a publisher and readers. Writing FreakTown was a watershed experience for me, creatively speaking. I recently did a tally of my written works: I've completed nine books of novella or novel length, and am now working on book ten. So it took nine books for me to start to get a handle on what I'm doing. Call me a slow learner, I don't care, every one of those eight that came before it was worth the time and effort they took to write, whether they were published or not.

This improved outlook has spread to the Mojo series. Red House was such a hard book to write and for such a very long time after I had no idea where to take those characters next, I didn't know if there would be another one. (I was also struggling with huge self-doubt, despite having two published books under my belt. That felt like a fluke, like at any time someone might come along and say, ha ha the joke's on you, we didn't really mean it when we let you think you're a published author.) I wanted to do one more Mojo to wrap it up, though, so I kept trying. I had a few ideas that went nowhere and I had an opening scene that sat around for months. Finally I had some ideas that felt like a real story, and that opening scene still worked. In fact, that opening scene told me what the book was all about. Crazy how that works sometimes. Even with outlines (which I now do) and character charts (which I tried but found useless for anything beyond remembering everybody's eye color) and goal-motivation-conflict worksheets (which, heh, no) there is still an element of magic to this. When you can feel that energy helping push the story into place, it's exhilarating and fun and worth all the nights you couldn't sleep because you were trying to work it out in your head. Mojo is back in that space full of magic and dumb luck and a wide open outline that leaves me a lot of room to wander around and play. Book three, tentatively titled Hoodoo Woman, is just shy of forty thousand words and going strong. The story and characters are going in a very unexpected direction. Part of me is scared readers will hate it because of that new direction, but I love it. I love this new direction so much, not only is this book going strong, I have stories for two more. I'll try to post an excerpt or two next week, plus a few tidbits about that new direction.

So there you have it, a general update on the writing-related goings-on around here. I leave you with this, just because:

#fridayflash - Mimosas At Dusk, Conclusion

2013-01-17T22:06:00.001-06:00

Part One
Part Two

I cleaned my glasses on my shirttail to give me something to do while I thought. If this Carlyle ghost was holding on tight, as Rambin said, it had to be holding on to something. There’s always a connection between incorporeal spirits and the piece of corporeal world they haunt, something that binds that spirit to this world. A good banishing should have been able to purge the spirit from the house, unless it wasn’t the actual house keeping the ghost here. “Do you have anything that belonged to the man? Any personal objects?” I replaced my glasses and fished a ponytail holder from a pocket, pulling my hair out of my way.

The vampire shook his head. “The only thing left from back then other than the house itself is the son’s diary. It’s a hell of a read, too. Until the old man started acting crazy I thought about taking it to a publisher.”

Could that be it? Could the son have written so evocatively of his father that the man’s ghost was able to forge a link to the book? I’d never heard of anything like that but until twenty minutes ago I would have told you vampires weren’t real either. “Where’s the diary?”

“I left it on my nightstand. Why?” With his hands on his hips and a curious look on his face, Daniel Rambin did not look the least bit like a monster.

I explained my theory, having to speed it up when a pounding started on the door. The salt would hold, but we couldn’t hide in the bathroom forever. “Okay, I need to get to that diary. Can you draw the ghost away from me?”

“You want me to be bait?” I nodded. “Well, that’s a new one for me.” More pounding, then something crashed against the door. “Damn it. I love this house.” He looked frustrated, furious, a little heartsick. How old was he? How many homes had he owned? What made this one so special that he refused to give it up, even though he clearly had the money to live anywhere. A lot of questions, and I found myself hoping I’d get to know the answers. He may have been a vampire, but he seemed like a decent person. He ran a hand through his hair and nodded. “I’ll do my best. You ready?”

“Let’s do it, bubba.”

He reared his head back and gave me sharp look. “I don’t know about you calling me bubba.”

“You’ll get used to it.” I gave him a tentative pat on the arm. “Now, come on. Let’s get this over with. I need a drink.”

On the count of three Daniel flung the door open and ran, cussing at the top of his lungs like a madman. I bolted for the stairs and found his bedroom. Each side of his bed had a nightstand, both piled high with books and magazines. I went through the closest one first, finding a strange mix of Wired, Playboy, Cosmo, Vogue, and several paperback mystery novels. The other nightstand held more paperbacks, an ereader, several newspapers, and finally an old leather-bound journal. I skimmed a few pages to confirm it was what I needed.

Full of careful old-fashioned handwriting, the journal was well over a hundred years old. What a boon a discovery like this would be to a historian, what an incredible window into day to day life in that particular time and place. What a great shame to have to destroy it. Maybe if I removed it from the house, the ghost would leave. I could find someone at Vanderbilt or the University of Tennessee who’d want to study the journal.

And maybe the ghost would follow the journal and start tearing up some history department. Like it or not, I had to destroy this book. I dug my lighter out of my pocket, flicked it, got nothing. Shook it and examined it for fluid. It looked almost empty and probably wouldn’t light anymore. Spotting several candles around the room, I started searching for a lighter or matches but came up with nothing.

I heard more yelling from downstairs but couldn’t be sure if it was the ghost or the vampire. Then another crash of something breaking, followed by what was definitely the vampire swearing a blue streak. For a moment I considered what to do.

No one else was in the room. No one would see or know what I did.

I grabbed a candle off a shelf and a metal waste basket from a corner and sat on the edge of the bed. Moved everything off the nightstand to make room for the candle. Concentrating on the wick, I focused everything in me on pulling a flame out of it. Soon sweat rolled from my hairline down my face and I trembled with the effort. I felt a little sick to my stomach too but I got what I needed. The wick burst to life, giving me a nice healthy flame. I started ripping pages out of the journal, setting them on fire and dropping them into the garbage can.

By the time Daniel joined me I had a nice roaring fire in the waste basket. He kept his distance but looked pleased.

“I want to go through the house and check, but I’m pretty sure this worked.” I stayed seated, though. I felt like I’d trudged uphill through clinging mud.

“I think you’re right. It stopped breaking my stuff and it made this weird noise, almost like it was sad.”
“Guess he liked tormenting you.”

We watched the fire for a long moment in companionable silence. The vampire spoke first. “You mean what you said, about needing a drink? Cos I got the best private bar in the county downstairs.”

I took him up on his offer. After making sure the journal was nothing but ashes and the fire was out, we went downstairs.

He led me to the bar at the far side of the living room. I took a seat in one of the stools as he walked around. He turned off the Howlin’ Wolf CD then began mixing our drinks. “It’s early evening. Brunch by my watch, so I thought mimosas would be nice.”

He produced two champagne flutes, a bottle of the bubbly stuff, and a container from a small half-hidden fridge of orange juice that looked like he’d squeezed it himself. Next to all that he placed a single shot glass and a long stirring spoon. I watched as he poured the orange juice, then the champagne. He stirred the drinks gently with a steady hand, meeting my gaze with a slight smile. “You’re not scared of ghosts,” he said. He wasn’t asking.

I shook my head once. “No.”

“You don’t seem to be too scared of vampires either.” There was an unasked question in his voice.

I answered it. “I’m not scared of you. But you are the first vampire I’ve ever met.”

He replaced the spoon next to the shot glass and rested his hands on either side of our drinks. His blue eyes seemed to take a measure of me, of what I was made of. I’d already done the same to him so I couldn’t complain. “There’s two things you need to know about me, Roxie.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m not like other vampires.” He smiled, a warm friendly smile like a summer day. Then his fangs slid out in a quick motion. “But I’m still a vampire.”

I thought of my ability to see auras and ghosts. All the time I’d spent hanging out in graveyards. Using herbs and roots to do magic, throwing the bones for divination. I was no stranger to summer days but night was where I belonged. I picked up a glass and tipped it in a toast. “Here’s to long nights and strange friends,” I said with a grin.

Fangs retracted, he drew another container from the mini-fridge. Stuck it in a microwave behind the bar for thirty seconds, then filled the shot glass with its contents. Blood.

A nervous skitter ran through my stomach.

He stirred the shot of blood into his mimosa, then raised his glass to me. “Here’s to the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

We drank our cocktails and talked more about his ghost. Relaxed, got to know each other a little, got comfortable in each other’s presence. I felt no fear at all. Then at one point he turned to the stereo and said, “Hey, you like Rascal Flats?”

I choked on my mimosa. A vampire that liked country music? “Bubba, now you’re scaring me.”

#fridayflash - Mimosas At Dusk, Part 2

2013-01-10T20:54:00.000-06:00

Read Part One here.

I stumbled backward, nearly falling when I reached the stairs. Unable to speak or take my eyes off the fangs that extended from his canines, the sharp points making slight indentions in his lower lip. I grabbed on to the banister for support as I debated running screaming from the house. That is, if I could get past him. Rambin and his fangs were between me and the front door.

He got to his feet slowly. I could hear joints popping as he flexed his arms and neck. Blood covered much of his shirt, matted his hair, and stained a path down his forehead. He wiped it out of his left eye, then licked it from his fingers.

That was just about enough. “Dude!”

Rambin shrugged, looking like a kid caught doing something naughty. “What? It’s my blood.”

I bugged my eyes at him. It was about as eloquent as I could get at the moment.

He held up a hand. “Look, I gather this is a shock to you. In which case, I’m sorry you found out like this.”

Apparently the ghost didn’t like being left out of the conversation because he tossed a decorative bowl at Rambin, hitting him in the chest. Snarling, he called up at the ghost, “I’ve had about enough out of you!”

I looked up to see the ghost shimmer with rage. It seemed to expand, then draw in on itself. I’d seen ghosts do that before and knew to get out of the way. It cannonballed down the stairs to crash into Rambin, knocking him to the floor and sending him sliding until he hit the front door.

Cussing with impressive flair, Rambin grabbed the door knob and pulled himself up. He met my eyes, gesturing wildly as the ghost cracked the glass in a grandfather clock. “See what I have to put up with? I want this damn ghost outta my house.”

The damn ghost started tossing around shards of broken glass. As I took refuge inside the living room, I could kind of see Rambin’s point.

As the ghost made hash of the large clock Rambin continued to yell and curse it at. I’d seen this kind of frustration in homeowners before, at the end of their rope and desperate for relief. The fact that I was watching a vampire lose his shit somehow made it worse.

Vampire. Yeah. Time to reconsider packing a booze-filled flask on the job. I could sure use a nip of fortifying beverage right about now.

“Oh no you don’t!” Rambin yelled. He stood in the middle of the foyer, staring up at the chandelier directly overhead. A large ornate bronze number, it had several arms, all kinds of glass or crystal balls hanging from it, and half a dozen light fixtures shaped like candle flames. Gripped in a violent shaking, it looked ready to explode. “Not my brand new Pottery Barn chandelier!” As if on cue, the light fixtures burst, raining glass on Rambin. He threw his arms over his head, both hands balled into fists and giving the ghost the middle finger. “You bastard!”

A disembodied cackle of maniacal laughter filled the room as the crystal balls were ripped from the chandelier’s arms and used as projectiles. Rambin was pelted from all sides, jumping at every impact, his cursing becoming increasingly creative. One of the balls shot up from the floor to hit him between the eyes, opening a gash and painting his face with more blood.

Normally I would never laugh at the distress of a client but this time I couldn’t help it. That ghost was kicking the vampire’s ass. But then I felt guilty for laughing. “Mr. Rambin! Mr. Rambin!” I was still sitting just inside the living room sheltered behind the wall and though I wanted to help my client, I didn’t relish the thought of walking into the hot zone and getting beaned with chandelier parts. “Daniel, come here!”

He finally quit flailing around and paid attention. I stood as he joined me. “You’ve got to do something about this. Please!”

A crystal ball bounced off his chest and hit the top of my shoulder, so hard I was sure I’d have a bruise. “We need to get out of the line of fire first.”

His fangs had retracted but he looked furious enough to take on a grizzly. “The guest bathroom is just down the hall. How about we make a run for it?”

I nodded, motioning for him to lead the way. By the time he slammed the door behind me I had a few more bruises but nothing serious. I pulled a container of salt from a pocket of my cargo pants and poured a thick line in front of the door, then looked around to make sure there was no other way for the ghost to enter. Seeing none, I said, “We should be safe as long as we stay in here.”

The guest bath was as impressive as the rest of the house. Marble fixtures, flocked wallpaper, slate floor tiles, and a large gilt mirror in which the vampire did in fact have a reflection. I stared at that reflection, then lowered my glasses to get a look at his aura. Still mostly the same sunny yellow, but with a smattering of red that I would have interpreted as great agitation in anyone else. I wasn’t sure if it meant the same with him. I just hoped it didn’t mean he was hungry. Thirsty, whatever.

A vampire. Damn. This was definitely the weirdest thing I’d come across since that sasquatch femur bone.
He took a step back, leaned against the wall. “You don’t have to be afraid of me. I got you out here to do a job, not, you know, like a pizza delivery or something.”

There was nothing in his aura or his attitude that suggested he was lying. And he for damn sure had a ghost problem. I decided to take him at his word. “I’ve got some stuff in my car to do a banishing spell. It’ll take time but it should be effective.”

Rambin pushed off from the wall and moved to the sink, turning on the cold water. As he washed the blood from his face, an act I was deeply grateful for, he said, “Look, I’m sure that would work under normal circumstances. I don’t think this is normal, though. You’re the third person I’ve had out here and so far nobody’s been able to get that ghost out of my house.”

That made me intensely curious. “Who’d you have out here?”

“A shaman friend of mine, and a friend of his that’s a medium. I’m new here in town so I went with old contacts. When they weren’t able to help I started looking local.” He dried his face with a hand towel.
“And they both did banishings that didn’t work?”

“Great big ceremonies.” He waved a hand. “Funky incense and candle wax on the hardwood. Didn’t do a damn thing. I think he’s holding on tight because of me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I think that ghost is prejudiced against vampires.”

Stay tuned for the conclusion next week!

THE END for Bradbury

2013-01-06T00:00:00.000-06:00

Cross-posted from The Bradbury Institute.

I've been putting off writing this post for some time now, but I have to do it. Here goes: between taking care of my baby and writing books for submission, I am unable to continue my serial The Bradbury Institute. I hate this. I really, really hate it, but there are just so many hours in the day. It goes without saying that taking care of a baby is a full time job in and of itself. I have to work in writing whenever I can. Some days I can get a decent word count like I used to, other days I have to be happy with a few hundred or even none at all. With my writing time so limited, I have to prioritize, and that means working on things I can submit to a publisher and (hopefully) get paid for. I still plan to post flash fiction whenever a good idea strikes but I don't have the time to keep a serial going.

I want to thank everyone who read Bradbury, shared the links, and gave me encouragement. A special shout-out goes to the folks at Webcast Beacon for making the first volume a part of their webfiction reading series. I also want to apologize to readers for calling a halt to this in the middle of a volume. If I could get it finished and still be able to write for submission, I would do it. Right now, though, I just can't.

Having said all that, it is my hope that Bradbury will see the light of day again. I love the world and the characters and don't want to let it go. Of course I can't make any promises but I would love to turn it into a novel. It would take significant revisions and expansion and I don't know when I'd be able to do that, but it's definitely something I'd love to do. If there's ever any news to report on that, it'll be here on my regular blog.

Writing and sharing Bradbury has been a terrific experience that I hate to see end. Thank you all so much for reading!