K.T. Lynn is an American Muslim living in Shanghai, China. She is a social media manager by day, and a novelist by night. Her hobbies include reading, scuba-diving, and traveling. She aims to promote cross-cultural understanding through her work, which has been featured in Toastmasters International Magazine, DIYMFA, SISTERS, Amaliah, Blue Abaya, Saudi Life, and Productive Muslim.
K.T. Lynn's first novel is based on her time in Saudi Arabia, and is set for publication in late 2019. She is currently writing her second novel.
You can read about her misadventures at www.ktlynn.com .
How My Writing Journey Began
I spent most of my childhood lost in a fictional playground. Stacks of library books were my companions. Children playmates didn't interest me. It seemed simple. If you want to become a writer, just write! And until my senior year of high school, it was.
During my last year of high school, a well-respected member of the high schools faculty accused me of plagiarism. Without proof, the principal and school board allowed him to drag my name through the mud. The punishment of receiving no credit for the writing assignment I sweated over was annoying, but tolerable. It was his reasoning for suspicion that crushed my dreams.
"You aren't smart enough to have written this well."
Instead of allowing the teacher to spread his assault on my intellect, I withdrew. Keeping my head down, I graduated with the sting of plagiarism unchallenged. In the fall I started university in a new state. It was just the fresh start I needed to let my creativity shine. During registration, advising upperclassman warned me not to register with Mrs. May.
"You don't want her as an English teacher. Not unless you want to stay up all night writing and rewriting your papers!" I registered for her English 101 class at eight A.M, determined to prove myself.
I toiled for days on our first assignment. After one last edit, I fell asleep. Unfortunately, I forgot to set my alarm. The next morning, I pressed print before throwing on some clothes, and running a brush through my tangles. After I collected the pages from the printer, I stomped on my shoes and ran all the way to the lecture hall, squeaking in at 7:59. When the stapler reached my desk, I fashioned the pages together with a click and passed my essay forward. Whew. I had made it.
That Friday, our papers arrived with comments and corrections. On mine, a note in red was scrawled in the top right corner.
"Be careful. D+. You had a B paper."
I had stapled the pages together in the wrong order. In her effort to teach me a lesson, Mrs. May killed the last bit of gumption I had. Several weeks later I withdrew from her class, and changed my major to environmental science. I figured I wasn't a writer after all. That was until, my writing found me.
Back to the Beginning
Six years later, I was working in Washington D.C. as a geographer and miserable. Seeking a way out, I came across an advertisement for a certificate in teaching English. I registered the next day. Two weeks after completing the course, I was on a plane to Saudi Arabia. I taught English and began to chronicle my experiences on a blog. Each comment, like, and interaction with the online community, my voice grew stronger. At this point I had been promoted into curriculum development. Armed with a large blog following and some freelance writing pieces, I applied for a technical writing position. Finally, I was a writer after years of denying my childhood dreams. But, that was only the beginning.
I spent the year as a technical writer forging relationships with the PR and marketing departments. Moonlighting as a journalist for the local newspaper, I continued to pad my portfolio with bylines. One day, I set a meeting with the lead editor of our PR department and simply asked.
"How do I become a writer?"
"Write more." He handed me a card.
"Tell them I sent you."
It was a PR firm needed freelancers. I started immediately. One by one, the jobs came. Paid or unpaid, I took them all. Some were smashing successes. Others were by in large failures. But, I kept going. Two years later, I was hired as a writer/editor. Now, I work in social media management and continue to freelance write and blog.
The three most important things I've learned from my journey as a writer:
Inspirations and Heroes
I'm always inspired by reading quality writing. The stories that snag your imagination and won't let go! Some of my favorite authors include Tana French, Dot Hutchison, Naguib Mahfouz, Ahmed Tawfik, Amy Tan, Tayari Jones, Khaled Hosseini, and F. Scott Fitzgerald.
I would love to meet Khaled Hosseini! Not only are his books heartbreakingly beautiful, but he uses his work to draw attention to social and political strife in a sensitive and poignant way. He is my writerspiration!
Karen Eisenbrey lives in Seattle, WA, where she leads a quiet, orderly life and invents stories to make up for it. Although she intended to be a writer from an early age, until her mid-30s she had nothing to say. A little bit of free time and a vivid dream about a wizard changed all that. Karen writes fantasy and science fiction novels, as well as short fiction in a variety of genres and the occasional poem if it insists. She also sings in a church choir, plays drums in a garage band, and was surprised to find herself writing songs for her debut YA novel The Gospel According to St. Rage. A YA wizard fantasy, Daughter of Magic, was released by Not a Pipe Publishing in 2018. She shares her life with her husband, two young adult sons, and two mature adult cats.
Community and Opportunity
I have never been ambitious or good at pursuing goals, so my writing journey has been long and slow. In the long run, that has worked out well.
I always loved stories. I liked reading as soon as I learned how. I looked forward to writing assignments but didn't attempt to write a story on my own until I was 16. Not sure whether I was waiting for permission or needed a grade as motivation! From that point on, I wanted to be an author. I went to college, majored in literature, took fiction and poetry classes, wrote two bad practice novels ... and realized I had nothing to say. I gave up.
Or did I? As a 20-something newlywed, I had ideas for goofy picture books (not for children but not inappropriate). I learned to draw just well enough to make five of them, each with fewer words than the last, and shared them with family and friends. I made one more when my firstborn was a toddler, then didn't write again until the chaos years: two young children, both parents working full time, household to manage. THAT'S when I needed to write? OK ... I still didn't have anything to say, but I attempted fan fiction, short stories, and another bad practice novel.
Around this time, I went to hear Ursula K. LeGuin read at a local bookstore. I'd been a fan since my pre-teen years; she wrote the way I wanted to about the kinds of things I wished I could write about. As it happened, I entered the store right behind her and thought I would pass out, I was so starstruck. I might have said something coherent when I went up to have my book signed. I know she said something kind and supportive. She's my role model.
After I'd been writing for two years, I had a brief, vivid dream with two wizards and at least three plot twists. When I described it to my husband, he suggested I put it into a book. I found the idea of writing a wizard book daunting. I'd loved the Earthsea trilogy and now Harry Potter was huge. Did I dare? But those plot twists ...
I struggled for a year to get the story out of my head and the draft into shape, then more time making it kind of good. I liked the characters and setting enough to start a sequel, only to realize it was book 3. In order to start book 2 that summer, I made a deal with my kids: Mom gets one uninterrupted hour a day to write. By the end of the summer, I had a draft. Three books turned into four, then I worked up a science fiction novel that turned into two more. I made a few lame attempts to submit that first fantasy novel, but mostly, I wrote and revised and wrote some more.
I joined a local writers' association to network, and won second prize in their annual contest before the group folded. The best thing I got out of it was a writing buddy. We met weekly for years, swapping chapters and giving feedback. She told me about Authonomy.com, Harper Collins' site for authors to upload manuscripts for comments from other authors. I never got near the editors' desk, but I received great feedback and “met” several of my now-favorite writers, who have become friends.
Around the time Authonomy was winding down, a few participants formed the Pankhearst Collective and invited more of us to contribute to an anthology of young adult fiction titled Heathers. I didn't have anything on hand that fit the theme so I cooked up a short story about a girl so self-effacing she's invisible, until her “fairy godfather” puts a hat on her head and makes her visible. “Hat” was my first published work. I wrote two related stories and considered self-publishing them as an ebook until Pankhearst persuaded me to turn them into a novel that they would publish. Um, yes? I spent 2015 writing my garage-rock fairy tale The Gospel According to St Rage, released in summer 2016. Pankhearst folded its tent soon after and I once again considered self-publishing. Once again fate intervened.
Another Authonomy veteran, Benjamin Gorman, had started Not A Pipe Publishing. He asked to use my Authonomy comment as a blurb for his first book. He had reviewed Heathers favorably, so I sent him a review copy of my novel. He said he wished he'd published it. The fifth book in my fantasy setting seemed like my best bet to submit to Not A Pipe, as the first book of a new series. Then Not A Pipe announced that 2018 would be “The Year of Publishing Women.” I wanted to get in on that as a matter of principle, but by the time my manuscript was ready, submissions had closed. I let them know I had something for when they reopened. “Send it now.”
Daughter of Magic became one of nine Not A Pipe books released in 2018. It has been a beautiful ride, watching these exciting books come out in succession, editing and blurbing each other, going to each other's release events, taking part in panels. It's not what I expected when I dreamed of being a published author. There's little money in it and no glamour.
I just submitted another manuscript.
Find Karen on her website, Facebook, and Twitter
Daughter of Magic
Luskell has been dreaming about dead people.
Her parents may be the two most powerful wizards in the country, but Luskell doesn’t have any magic of her own, so she’s stuck spending a summer with her grandmother in the small town of Deep River where her father is the hometown hero. Then the dead start to visit her dreams with mysterious messages. In a secret pact with her friends Jagryn and Laki, Luskell begins to teach herself magic and discovers an apparently bottomless well of untapped power. But before she has control over this ability, her dead grandfather appears with a dire warning. With no way to send word to her parents, Luskell and her friends mount a daring rescue. Can they get to the capital in time to save the country … and her parents’ lives?
Where to Buy Daughter of Magic
Jenny Sundstedt is the author of the supernatural mystery Passing Through; the prequel short story “When the Wolf Comes;” and co-author of Write Away: A Year of Musings and Motivations for Writers. She is a member of Northern Colorado Writers and serves on the creative team for the annual NCW conference. Jenny is currently at work on a speculative fiction trilogy. When she’s not writing, she can be found sneaking chocolate, enjoying Colorado with her family and dog, and waging war on the laundry pile.
Hello everyone, and thanks for joining me on Amy’s blog today! I wish I could share with you the magical formula for writing success, but my journey is more of a cautionary tale. Not in a dramatic, I-can’t-believe-I-escaped-with-my-life way, but in a jeez-I-have-made-a-whole-lot-of-mistakes way. My lifelong blessing and curse is that I have the kind of brain that loves to make up stories. On some level, I always knew I wanted to be a writer. It just took me a hella long time to figure out how to go about it.
A peek inside the way-back machine reveals that I was a shy child with an extra helping of timidity on the side. Forget wallflower; I was more like the wallpaper. Speaking to anyone outside my immediate circle of family and friends was torture—heart-pounding, face-flushing, voice-squeaking torture. As a result, I stayed pretty quiet, which gave me ample opportunity for watching and listening. I loved to read, and as I grew older, I discovered that writing words down was a whole lot more fun than saying them out loud.
Fast forward to my late-twenties. I had a job I didn’t care much about and an anthropology degree I wasn’t using. It seemed like the perfect time to “be” a writer. I had plenty of ideas, so I did what I thought a writer should do: I sat down and (metaphorically) vomited out a novel. When my sister came home to visit at Christmas, I put it in front of her travel-weary eyes and waited for the praise. (Spoiler alert: it never came.)
Undaunted, I pressed on and began sending out my uncritiqued, unedited hot mess to whoever was accepting unsolicited submissions.
Ahem. For anyone who wonders… (raises megaphone to lips) Do. Not. Do. This.
I was thrilled when I signed with an agent. It felt so validating, I didn’t care that she required money up front. (Red flag? What red flag?) When my emails to her resulted in terse, uninformative replies, I thought it was my fault for being a needy writer. Only when I saw her name show up on a list of worst agents did I start to get the message. I wasn’t an undiscovered genius. I was a sucker with a penchant for adverbs.
Around the same time, I got pregnant with my first son. The second one came along two years later. Staying home raising two young boys was wonderful and fulfilling…and completely unproductive from a writing perspective. I occasionally had the time or the energy for it, but rarely both together.
But my dream to write never died. In fact, it became more insistent. It sat quietly in the corner and give me that plaintive look. You know the one. I knew it would wait forever if it had to, but that didn’t seem quite fair to either of us. So, I started writing again. This time, it felt different, for I had realized a great truth: just because writing was easy for me didn’t mean I was good at it.
Once it sank in—a humbling moment, to be sure—I began to understand what it really means to be a writer. I went to conferences and classes, I read books and blogs. I joined a critique group of wise women writers. I made my peace with killing my darlings, as the expression goes. I kept at learning the craft, and by the time my first novel was published, I knew I had something I could be proud of. Sure, it had the gestation period of a blue whale times ten, but it was out in the world. With my name on the front.
I’m not a fast or prolific writer, but I’m still working at it. I’m still learning. And every time I sit down at the keyboard, I try to do it a little better than the time before.
Afterlife counselor Dana Parker enjoys her job helping the newly departed unload their emotional baggage and move on. But Dominic Micelli is no typical client. As brash and angry as he is handsome, he was the only suspect in his wife’s disappearance. He insists he’s innocent. Torn between suspicion and sympathy, Dana agrees to do what Dominic cannot and return to the living world to seek his truth. And finally face her own.
Where to Buy Passing Through
Monica Yoknis writes Paranormal Thrillers based (loosely) on her own ghostly encounters, and family-friendly Cozy Mysteries. Monica is a member of Northern Colorado Writers, and serves on the Bunnyzine Development Team. Her current projects include: Ears O'Fluffin serial short stories, one novel, and the history column for The Carr Chatter newsletter. She lives in a cabin on the Colorado prairie, where she writes, crochets, reads mystery novels, and takes care of her rescue bunny.
My most recent book is the result of fan requests. Our hero, Ears O'Fluffin, made his debut as a series of short mystery stories in the monthly free eMag, Bunnyzine. The magazine's editor put a request to the Development Team for a regular monthly feature. I thought back to some of my favorite authors, and remembered that Arthur Conan Doyle published the Sherlock Holmes short stories as magazine serials. The idea was well received, I just had to figure out how to make it rabbit-related.
At the same time, I was watching old episodes of the TV show, Castle. One of my favorite episodes, The Blue Butterfly, features a typical trench coat wearing hard boiled PI. I flipped through a book of rabbit breeds, looking for the least likely tough guy detective, and found the Dwarf Hotot. Three pounds of white fluff and adorableness, I'd found my unlikely PI.
Of course he has a tiny trench coat, a fedora hat, and a bottle of carrot juice in his desk drawer. Ears O’Fluffin is a Pet Private Investigator. His office is a cardboard box in his human’s living room, complete with a desk, a chair, and a coat rack. Other pets come to him to solve the mysteries in their lives, while Ears tries to maintain his tough guy persona.
After about six months of serial shorts, I had run out of ideas for cases. I asked the Bunnyzine fans for mysteries that Ears should solve. I got several good ones, including an idea that deserved more than the short serial could provide. I put the idea of an Ears O’Fluffin novel to the fans, and got overwhelming positive feedback.
The Adventure of the Scarlet Bird is Ears’ most difficult case, to date. The boredom of a Pet Expo is broken by a plea for help from a glamorous white cat. A precious gem is stolen right under Ears’ nose dragging him into the seedy world of jewel thieves. To top it all off, Ears is subjected to the sarcasm of a British hamster tasked with finding another stolen gem. A room full of suspects, a hostile local police detective, and only two days to solve the case. Can Ears recover the gem and preserve his reputation as the country's most successful Pet PI?
Without my rescue bunny, Peaches, I would not have been pulled into the wonderful world of house rabbits. To give back to that community, and to help other rescued rabbits find their forever homes, I have set up a fundraiser for the Colorado House Rabbit Society. For every signed copy of The Adventure of the Scarlet Bird ordered from me, I will donate $1 to the CHRS. More information and purchase links can be found on my website at www.monicayoknis.com/earsofluffin.
The Adventure of the Scarlet Bird
Follow the adventure of a dwarf rabbit detective as he solves a perplexing theft. Appropriate for anyone ages 10 and up.
A boring weekend at a pet expo takes a dramatic turn for the mysterious when a bird made of rubies is stolen right out from under Ears’ nose. With his reputation as the country’s greatest Pet P.I. at stake, Ears finds himself facing his most difficult case. Is his client really a victim, or is she trying to frame Ears for the theft? Can Ears find the jewel and apprehend the real thief before the expo closes? Can he avoid being detained by the local police? And can he work with a sarcastic British hamster?
Find Monica on Facebook, Twitter and her website!
Where to Buy the Adventure of the Scarlet Bird
Tinthia lives on the Concord River with her black Lab, black cat, and assorted wildlife including a flock of Mallard ducks. When she’s not writing, she’s gardening, painting, eating ice cream, casting spells, and teaching. If asked about her favorite books, she'll tell you at the top of the list is Dandelion Wine by Ray Bradbury, followed by The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett, and The Wind in the Willows by Kenneth Grahame.
She enjoys writing romantic women's fiction, although she would like to try her hand at a murder mystery someday. Why? Well, let's just say she has a score to settle with a certain gentleman from a certain dating website.
Would like to know more about Tinthia? Find her on Facebook, Twitter, and at www.tinthiaclemant.com. Ask her anything, she’s an open book.
Hi, I’m Tinthia Clemant, a 69-year-old earth witch with a passion for telling stories. My books fall into the women’s fiction genre and center on strong-willed (although they might not know it at the beginning of the book) female leads. As Clarissa Pinkola Estés wrote in Women Who Run with the Wolves, “Go out in the woods, go out. If you don't go out in the woods nothing will ever happen and your life will never begin.” Thanks to me, my characters spend a lot of time in the woods where they stumble and fall, wish and hope, and ultimately learn to face the hidden truths about themselves.
Woven throughout all my stories are golden strands of romance, because, after all, life’s no fun without muscular arms, warm skin, and deep kisses. My heroines deserve no less.
My writing journey started back when Marilyn Monroe took her last breath, the Cuban Missile Crisis was on every adult’s mind, and the Beatles released Love Me Do. The year was 1962 and, at the age of seven, I wrote an enchanting tale about a monkey named Harry and a beautiful peacock named Claire.
My mother was the driving force behind my writing, acting as my cheerleader, critic, editor, and sole audience. I stopped writing after her death in 1982, convinced no one would ever want to read my stories, and jumped into the rat race called adult life.
Fast forward ten years and the birth of my son. While he took naps I wrote…and wrote and wrote. As Hemingway is quoted as saying, ‘The first draft of anything is shit.’ Boy, was he ever right. By the end of the year I had a completed novel. And it sucked! I stored the pages in the attic and stopped pretending that I could write.
Somewhere around my 59th birthday I read the following quote: ‘Don’t die with your stories inside of you.’ The words worked their magic and I pulled myself up by my big girl thong and opened the dam. The words flowed. I published my first book, The Summer of Annah: A Midsummer’s Wish on June 21, 2016 and I haven’t looked back since.
I’m often asked what advice I would give wannabe authors. Here goes: Have fun. As writers, we get to craft worlds where our readers will play, laugh, cry, fight, hide, shake with fear, and fall in love. What’s better than that? So have fun and write, damn it, write!
A Labor of Love
Be careful what you ask of your goddess; you might get your wish.
Annah-Belle Henderson didn’t intend to erase her memories. All she wanted was to forget the attack on her life. That, and the painful secret left behind by her parents. But a witch should know not to interfere with the plans of the Universe.
After surviving an attack on her life, Annah-Belle Henderson wanted nothing more than to return to her family, friends, and the arms of her new love, Eric Ashworth. Instead of finding peace, a dark truth from her past shatters the foundation on which she built her life and she finds herself tossed into a world of strangers. Whom can she trust? The brash blonde? The teenager? Or the handsome man claiming to be her lover?
In the long anticipated sequel to A Midsummer's Wish, A Labor of Love continues the journey of Annah-Belle Henderson, a woman determined to reclaim herself and find a way back to the people, and life, she once loved.
Would like to know more about Tinthia? Find her on Facebook, Twitter, and at www.tinthiaclemant.com.
Where to Buy A Labor of Love
Elspeth was born in London, raised in the South East countryside, but returned to the capital to complete a bachelor's degree in Philosophy at University College London. After suffering a period of illness in her teenage years, she chose to move in to medicine, gaining a 1st Class Honours from King's College London in 2012. She's moved up the country, working in Oxford, Sheffield, and finally settling with her fiancé near Leeds. She has worked in general medicine, general surgery, General Practice, inpatient psychiatry, obstetrics, trauma and pathology.
In her spare time, Elspeth loves dog walking, saving up to buy Champagne and helping out her local Yorkshire farmer.
‘You’ll never get a book published unless you write one’
If I’ve done something wrong, I apologise. The first line of a novel is key; it should contain intrigue and introduce conflict (‘if?’ ‘something wrong?’). The first line of mine is a Bowie look-a-like singing, ‘Ground control to sexy blonde,’ but I’m not writing books about antlers bobbing like periscopes in velveteen mists, so maybe that’s okay. I don’t know yet; I’m forty-five thousand words into my women’s fiction book, my first crack of the whip. This makes me a writer, not an author, an amateur alone in my blue kitchen, tapping at a purple Hewlett Packard. A profoundly cheap, plastic-y laptop, the lowest of the low, but when my life spectacularly imploded three years ago, I lost close to everything. I almost lost my life; a miss may be as good as a mile but, some days, when the teetering edge I was pushed too crashes back like a black dog through undergrowth, it doesn’t feel that way.
Writing a book has always been something I said I would do. Likewise, a tattoo. Eighteen months ago, a friend looked me square in the eye, tired of my wittering, and said, ‘You’ll never get a book published unless you write one.’ Clarity dawned, she was right, but from that moment a mill stone was hung firmly around my neck; my dream would remain a dream unless I made it happen. A year ago, I put pen to paper, unselfconsciously hammering away. I’m a thirty-three-year-old doctor. No shadow of my past hints at creative writing, bar boxes of diaries and poems that I burned like a pyre when my troubles started, wishing my teenage memories could also char and float, feather light, into the dewy Autumn mist.
Nine months ago, after two years off, I got back to part-time work in end of life care. As a present to myself, I signed up for a six-week online writing course with ‘Curtis Brown Creative’, a London literary agent. A top one. The kind that won’t publish my shoddily written book in a million trillion years. And I learnt so much, I cried. I cried because I’d started my novel without following the rules. My first line was just a line, my first chapter didn’t hook a reader in with sinking talons, I’d used people’s names in my dialogue… Sins that would get any completed manuscript pushed from the ‘slush pile’ before anyone flicked to page two.
Some people will read this and think, ‘writing is art, it isn’t about rules?!’, and sometimes that is true. But, rules matter to me because not only do I love writing, like an addiction, but I want to earn some living from it and commercial fiction does follow rules, for most of us. Medicine is a profoundly privileged job, but my heart and mind struggle to take it. I’m not after something lavish, I’m happy with a small life, but working in my jeans and walking my dog would be balm to my healing soul. My new twitter clan of writers (and authors) confirm and compound the crippling self-doubt, the writer’s block and terrifying uncertainty, the hard work travelling and promoting books, but I still think it would be easier for my heart-strings than telling a man my age that his fiancé is dying.
Through two of these online courses and hopping on board a writing community on twitter (I’d never used it before, see #amwriting or #ShareYourRejections) I now see links for writing competitions, short stories, flash fiction, this blog. It’s been a way to find a ‘beta’ reader (someone sympathetic, who isn’t your mum, who you swap work with and critique each other’s). I’ve found a free mentoring organisation for women writers and applied (WoMentoring). Their posts keep me motivated, we all share the same doubt. Posts from authors, and following their lives, gives me a goal. My literary hero, Marian Keyes, is a joy and tweets ten times per day; having a cuppa with her would make my hair stand on end with excitement. She, like me, reached her early thirties after a time she might describe as, ‘as rough as a badger’s arse’, and started her hilarious, eccentric, wildly successful women’s fiction. I aspire to follow, which may seem overblown, presumptuous, but in a setting where you have literally no idea if anyone will remotely want your book, until you’ve written and edited the Entire thing, you have, have, have to keep the dream alive.
Looking out from here, over the second half of my book, the only plan I have to hand is a crisis around 75% (in another twenty thousand words). Before that, my main character (MC) will be questioning her life with her bully fiancé, comparing it to her feelings for her mature psychotherapist, then the crisis will unfold. The final 25% of the book will be her resolution. Previously, I thought this constituted the writing of a book. Now I understand it will be the completion of a ‘first draft’, possibly one of three or four, and when I’m finally happy with it, I’ll form a watertight synopsis, work on my ‘pitch line’ and begin the submissions process. Then I’ll let the world decide, while I carry on with book two; 1930’s rom-com? End of life based tragic love story? The word is my oyster.
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I just got back from my first Killer Nashville conference AND my first visit to the state of Tennessee. As it turns out, I have a bunch of family living outside of Nashville and was able to not only get some writing inspiration, but also see family members I haven’t seen in years (and, in some cases, decades). The Nashville area is gorgeous and it was so nice to reconnect with my relatives.
I also got to do some sightseeing including a visit to the Parthenon (hey, Percy Jackson, look what I found!), tours of the Belmont and Vanderbilt campuses and a trip to Hattie B’s for some hot chicken (PS when they say hot, they mean HOT!).
The conference itself was a real eye-opener. I’ve never left a writing conference where I didn’t learn something, and this was no exception. I visited the mock crime scene several times to test my sleuthing skills. I attended a number of panels on craft and career management. And, most importantly, I networked. I met some incredible writers, made some new friends, and was given some heady perspective on my writing career. I hadn’t realized it before, but I was making some pretty major decisions about the direction of my career based on fear. Fear of the unknown. Fear of failure. Fear of making the wrong choices.
For the past two years (almost) I’ve been inviting authors onto my blog to talk about their writing journey, the risks they’ve taken and the things that have inspired their work. As a result, I know that I’m not alone in feeling the pressure. I’ve learned a lot in the past four years of full-time writing, but the lessons never stop coming and for that I am immensely thankful.
Killer Nashville provides a really interesting mix of opportunities. Over the course of four days, I met four literary agents, two of whom requested materials. I took copious notes on the craft of writing (Jeffrey Deaver’s master class was amazing!). And I heard some inspiring success stories about self-publishing. This last point caused a whole lot of commotion in my brain. I self-published Wallflower Bloomingearly in my career, when I was still learning as I went. An indie publisher in Colorado picked up WB and its sequel Best Laid Plans & Other Disasters. A third book was in the contract, but life happens to all of us and book three was put on the backburner as I turned my focus to writing thrillers. And in doing so, I found myself back where I started with no agent and no publishing contract.
That was OK by me. I needed to work on my craft and revise my plan for moving forward. In the meantime, I published a short story and more pieces for ESME and Novelty Bride. I kept busy. I decided to start again with traditional publishing as my goal, and once the revisions were done on my first thriller manuscript, I started querying agents.
I’m still immersed in that process. I’d put the whole idea of ever self-publishing again on hold indefinitely, but when I heard J.A. Konrath speak at the conference, his words stopped me in my tracks. I love it when someone makes you throw out all your preconceived notions and take a hard look at what you’re doing. That’s what Joe’s talk did for me, and as the weekend progressed I heard more stories that continued to challenge the plans I’d made for my writing career.
When I got home, my husband (smart guy that he is) listened as I rambled about the direction of my writing career and asked a simple, but incredibly important question that I hadn’t been putting into words up until that moment: what are your career goals? Seems pretty basic, yes? This is advice I give to other writers all the time—define success, put your goals in writing, and so on—but somehow was overlooking for myself. And as I started to answer this question, I realized that my previous plans had been largely based in fear.
On the final day of the conference, Joe Konrath asked me what my take-away from the conference was. Here it is. No fear. As I move forward, I will make informed decisions based not on what everyone else is doing, not on what I think I SHOULD be doing, but based on what I WANT to be doing, what I feel is right for me, and what will help me reach myprofessional goals. Could mean traditional publishing, could mean self-publishing, or maybe some combination of both. It probably sounds simple, but sometimes you need a good kick in the pants to make you see things you should have been seeing all along. Thanks Joe!
And here we go!
Erick Mertz is a fiction author from Portland, Oregon. Published by Longbranch Productions, the forthcoming novella, The Mask Of Tomorrow is his debut work of book length fiction, and the first in The Strange Air Series of Oregon based supernatural mysteries. Prior to this book’s release, his fiction has been published in Goldman Review, The Los Angeles Review and The Bethany Reader.
In 2014, he self-produced The Measurable Blood audiobook, based on a short story of the same name, published in Mad Scientist Journal. His poetry can be found in Turtle Island Quarterly, Stone Boat, Dos Passos Review, Cirque Magazine, and most recently, Baldhip Magzine.
In a previous life while an English student at The University of Oregon, he was a late night DJ at 88.1 KWVA. Currently, he writes about new music at New Noise, Pennyblack Music and Bearded UK. He has written articles on Oregon history for 1859 Magazine, Coastal Living and Southern Oregon Magazine.
A baseball fanatic, beer and food enthusiast, and unapologetic music obsessive, Erick not only considers the Pacific Northwest his home, but also his perpetual muse. When he is not writing, he also works with community-based people with Developmental Disabilities, a field where he has worked since high school.
Currently, Erick lives in Portland with his wife and son.
Like an old house where no wall is straight and no corner is exactly square, my writing career has been a constant search for structural integrity.
I was always a writer. I used to wonder with gravelly suspicion about people who weren’t pre-occupied with words and sentences, and the challenge of penning a novel.
My father was an office man. He was a mechanical engineer to be exact. He was responsible for designing massive industrial conveyor systems all over, from Seward, Alaska to Tasmania. In his world, every corner had to be perfectly square, measured lines even, plans produced in triplicate. One of my first jobs was to run prints for him and I can still see his perfect engineer’s handwriting.
Even today, some thirty-five years later, I recall the phone number to his office. On certain days after school I would call him at work before he left. I would ask about his day, but my real purpose was to request some of the notepads and pens his employer kept hoarded in the supply closet. For me, that closet was like a candy store; the spiral bound notebooks delightful places for new writing.
We lived on a country road, connected to another country road, which led to another country road that ran along a fruit orchard. There was a cherry tree atop a small hill. The shadow of that cherry tree was the outside boundary of how far, at seven years old, I was allowed to walk by myself.
Every day after school, rain or shine, I would walk out to the cherry tree where my Dad could pick me up on his way home. I could pick out his headlights from the bend in the road more than a half-mile up. Those days when I requested notepads and pens were especially exciting. I would hop into his old Ford F-150, slide up onto the bench seat where he’d have a stack of them waiting for me. He never forgot.
“Write a good one, OK?” he would say before taking us that last mile back to the house.
Once completed, my Mom would sew construction paper covers onto my books. We treated the whole process like a cottage publishing enterprise: over breakfast, I would discuss cover design, afterward we would carefully select thread and I would oversee the binding before we presented the finished product on the table like a bookstore.
Looking back my parents were a supportive pair. I’m sure they looked at that collection of silly space opera pastiches and wondered what it would all add up to.
Dad said, “write a good one” and Mom served as my publisher. Still, I wonder what they thought of the road I was setting out on.
No one tells you how to do this, other than to usually say, don’t do something like that. It’s an impractical thing, writing, perhaps the most impractical thing of all. Even without a map to where I was going, I would not be deterred though. Writing was always the thing I was going to do, one way or another. Besides, all of the more practical careers like astronaut, baseball player and President were already taken.
So, I stocked up on spiral notebook pads and pens, and began the life’s work.
As I got older, my Dad began his process of parenting my aphorism. One of his favorites was, “be careful about making too many plans” which was odd for an engineer whose life output was a roll of blue printed plans.
More genuinely though, Dad would add, “all you’ll end up at the end of the day is a person biding their time.”
He was right. The longer you sit around in the “what” and “when” the more infirm your self-definition becomes. If you just do this thing, whether that thing is a book or an article or a blog, you become the action and not the plan.
Be the verb, right? That’s what he was saying. Be the action word.
Four years ago, I met Tom Robbins at a writer’s conference. He was alone at a banquet table, waiting impatiently for someone to bring him his dinner.
My fellow writers were afraid to walk up to Tom. Having already infused myself with some liquid courage, I had no such inhibitions.
“You’re Tom Robbins,” I said.
Feigning surprise, he replied, “I am.”
“Your writing has cost me a girlfriend or two,” I said.
Then he laughed. I mean, really laughed. “Hey, me too.”
I noticed that Tom was wearing an audacious pair of Converse All-Stars. They were covered in murals of Andy Warhol’s Marilyn Monroe.
“Nice shoes,” he said.
“That’s the secret,” he replied.
Then Tom Robbins shook his head with sage disgust. “No, kid. Be memorable.”
My first self-published book, The Mask Of Tomorrow will hit the ground later this fall. Sadly, my Dad won’t be there to see it. I’ll send Tom Robbins a copy, but what are the odds he reads it?
If my Dad was here though, I would tell him that him proudly that I’m publishing it myself, and that I wrote the first draft in pen in a spiral notebooks. I don’t know if he’d fully understand. But I at least believe he’d recognize where all of this came from.
A lack of square corners. Wobbly walls. Years in, it hardly seems to make a difference. The strange road is home.
Be yourself. Be memorable.
The Mask of Tomorrow
Way out in Canyon County, Oregon the shadows seem to cast just a little longer. Maybe it’s because of the way the sunrises over Tallow Creek. Maybe it’s how shafts of summer dusk light spill out from behind the jagged peaks of the Cascade Mountains.
Or maybe it’s something deeper still, something buried long ago out in the sage grass that is only now simmering to the surface.
What took place in the early-1980’s around the burned out mill town of Josephine is one of countless untold chapters in the story of the American west. It is but a tiny, haunted sliver of a larger saga that began long before any one living there now can remember.
Taking place in a world teeming with glassy eyed drifters, stoic ranchers, heavy-pouring bartenders, and a few honest cops, The Strange Air Series of supernatural mysteries explores the unfurling of a long held cosmic secrets that threaten the rusted out husk of the American dream.
The debut book in the series, The Mask Of Tomorrow will be published in Autumn 2018. Subscribe at www.erickmertzauthor.com for updates on it’s release.
Bert Edens has been making up stories since he was old enough to talk, a habit which tended to get his hind-end tanned and his nose stuck in a corner. Along the way, he decided to start writing some of them down. His youth was filled with imaginative creations of everything from sci-fi epics to send-ups of the “Friday the 13th” series. His first print credit was a story about his older son, Zak, published in the 2001 anthology “Living Miracles: Stories of Hope from Parents of Premature Children”. Life then got in the way, so to speak, as he focused on raising his two sons and becoming a widower, the latter not by choice, of course. He has recently had two flash fiction pieces published in anthologies, had a non-fiction piece published in a magazine for disability awareness, and has multiple stories accepted for publication with countless others submitted and looking for homes.
Bert lives in Arkansas with his amazing wife, Carrie, whom he married in June 2018, and older son Zak, with his younger son Josh living nearby. Besides being a writer and editor, Bert spends his spare time teaching martial arts, working security, and doing application development and customer support for an Arkansas-based technology company.
You can read all you want about Bert at his website www.bert-edens.com.
Pain. The best stories come from pain.
We all love a happy ending full of hugs, kisses, rainbows, and riding off into the proverbial sunset, but the most powerful, visceral reactions readers experience come from stories that set their hearts, minds, and souls on end. Flip-flop their expectations of how things should be and give them sinister glances into how things could be, and you will hold their attention.
There is some semblance of schadenfreude in reading about other people’s suffering. You can lose yourself in the story, feel the pain and heartache, and cry along with them. Yet, when it’s all done, you can just close the book and be done with it. You can revel in that fact that, whew at least that wasn’t you.
While I write and have been published in many genres, dark fiction always seems to be where the stories flow like a river as I’m putting them to paper. People who know me but are just learning I’m a writer are often surprised by this, because I tend to be the epitome of an eternal optimist. I have a ready smile and word of encouragement that is genuine because I truly want everyone to be happy, even those who have harmed me or those I love. I can’t wish ill will on anyone because I’ve been there and felt those barbs.
I write about children being abused, be it physically, emotionally, or sexually, not because I espouse that kind of cruelty, but because I know what it’s like. My childhood was full of countless challenges that affected me well into my first marriage because I honestly had no idea what a healthy relationship looked like. I struggled, we struggled, and I grew while Jann had the patience of Job waiting for me to start acting like an adult, husband, and father.
Broken adults come from broken children. Broken adults make the best artists, both before and after they have been reassembled, the cracks and flaws filled with mortar. But those scars are still visible, often glowing and pulsing and bleeding, and they are my Muse.
I write about death not because I enjoy it, but because I have known potential and real loss. I have sat in a chapel outside the NICU as doctors stopped and restarted Zak’s heart, hoping to reset a potentially fatal arrythmia. Jann and I held each other close knowing there was a chance, however slight, his heart would not restart. We had already almost lost him at birth, and here we were again, just a few days later, having to face that possibility again.
All through Zak’s youth, we worried about every little thing. He was fragile, and we were worried that every little illness, bump, bruise, or that next doctor visit would be when he would fracture. Tip-toeing on egg shells is no way to go through life, especially as I was still finding my way before all this extra emotion and stress and pain was heaped onto our marriage.
But potential loss is a mere sliver of a shadow compared to the engulfing darkness of actual loss. In January 2011, Jann died suddenly and literally in my arms. All our worlds were shattered by that single moment. Zak and Josh were seventeen and fourteen, respectively, when she died. While it was hard on Zak, Josh was much closer to his mother than to me, and it was devastating to him. Losing a parent is the natural order of things, but you expect it to happen when you’re in your forties or fifties, not when you’re a teen.
When that tsunami of pain and suffering hits, all you can do is lean into it, brace your feet, and suffer the force of the waves, hoping you don’t drown. But the funny thing about water, even a tsunami, is that it only flows in one direction, just like life. So, you go where it takes you because you can’t go back. You go to bed every night relieved you haven’t drowned, at least not today, then wake up the next morning and tread water as best you can. Again. And again. And again.
Giving up and just sinking is not an option when you’re suddenly the sole provider and role model for your boys. How can they be strong and keep afloat when you’ve resigned to sitting on the ocean floor, waiting for the end?
Praise on how well you have done despite your loss rolls like water off a duck’s back because you know it’s a farce. There’s no high praise in enduring every day, week, month, and year when you know all you did was survive, sometimes despite yourself. No magical formula exists for surviving pain and loss. You just simply do what you must do.
I write about pain because I have seen it in in others, some of which I can offer empathy for, some of which I can’t. From the time he was fourteen to fifteen, Josh lost five people close to him: his great-grandfather, his mother, his aunt, his uncle, and his best friend. His mother and best friend were the most devastating, because he not only lost the person he was closest to, only seven months later, he lost the one person he could talk to about it. Celia was only fourteen when she died, and for Josh, it was like a second tsunami just as he was gulping for breath from the first one.
Then there’s the pain I can’t understand and hope to never experience, and that is the annihilating feeling of losing your child. In December 2007, four days after Christmas and eight years before Carrie and I started dating, she lost her daughter Amanda at 12 years of age. The loss of a child is perhaps the most insidious and long-term pain, for it relegates the survivor to a lifetime of missed milestones and what-ifs. I know every June, when Amanda’s birthday comes around, and every Christmas, Carrie will get lost in thoughts about her daughter. Family gatherings full of chattering and bubbly children opening gifts only hammers home that sharpened stake of grief. I can’t know what she’s feeling. All I can do is hold her and let her know she’s not alone.
But what do we do with pain, once we’ve spotted that feeble pinprick of light at the end of the tunnel and realize the darkness might eventually go away? If you’re an artist, you create. You gather the pain into your arms, caress it, whisper to it, love it, mold it, smooth it, mix it with the happiness you have enjoyed, and create. Because, while you may never be able to truly close the book on that pain, those who experience and read about it can.
A guide for parents of premature babies discusses the experiences of the parents of twenty premature babies and the stories of their ordeals, as well as providing tips on dealing with feelings of anger and depression. 10,000 first printing.
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Irene Radford has been writing stories ever since she figured out what a pencil was for. Editing grew out of her love of the craft of writing.
Mostly Irene writes fantasy and historical fantasy including the best-selling Dragon Nimbus Series and the masterwork Merlin’s Descendants series. In other lifetimes she writes urban fantasy as P.R. Frost or Phyllis Ames, and space opera as C.F. Bentley. Lately she ventured into Steampunk as Julia Verne St. John.
If you wish information on the latest releases from Ms Radford, under any of her pen names, you can subscribe to her newsletter: www.ireneradford.net. Or you can follow her on Facebook as Phyllis Irene Radford, or on twitter @radford_irene25
You can also read advance copies of new books on Irene’s Patreon Account: https://www.patreon.com/user?u=5806073
Reading a book imbued with spirituality and later trying to write those qualities into my own work has fascinated me for a long time. Spirituality is more than religion. To me it is a spiritual character, someone who lives their faith and has a personal relationship with their beliefs. Their faith guides every decision they make even when they question the advisability of the decision.
For them there is no division between the divine and reality.
I played with these ideas in Guardian of the Vision, Merlin’s Descendants #3. https://bookviewcafe.com/bookstore/book/guardian-of-the-vision/
Griffin Kirkwood is a Roman Catholic priest who must wrestle with the strict teaching of his religion, weighing those truths against the truth of Magical talents in himself and his family. “A spell is nothing more than a prayer.”
I started to see that faith is more than emotion, but it needs to invoke and emotional response from the reader. That is hard to do but begins on a character level. The writer, and the reader needs to bond closely to the character and understand what they believe and why.
Then came the Confederated of Star System series by C.F. Bentley. https://bookviewcafe.com/bookstore/book/harmony/
Sissy dove head first into my life and would not go away until I told her story. An undereducated factory worker, our heroine found herself dragged into the Temple Caste and made High Priestess because the powers that be thought she’d be malleable and do as she was told. They learned otherwise. But finally given the right and the means to read the history of Harmony, both goddess and planet, she has questions that she cannot reconcile with her very direct and magical connection to her home and her faith. No one messes with the avatar of a goddess, even when she is forced into exile on a space station.
That series exhausted me, and I went back to more mundane topics. Until…
My best friend and co-writer, Bob Brown, came up with a new anthology idea. We’d already co-edited and written for Alternative Truths, which hit several Amazon bestseller lists, and More Alternative Truths. He published a couple of other books without me while I wrote a couple books on my own. But then I got a phone call. “Want to edit Alternative Theologies?”
How could I say no?
We racked up almost 150 submissions. In every open call anthologies there a few inappropriate pieces. Some in the “What were you thinking?” category that make me head for the hand sanitizers. There are a few that are beautifully written pieces that don’t quite fit theme. We bought two of those for the next anthology “Alternative Apocalypses.”
And then there is the good stuff. The really good stuff that made us cry when we had to choose one from among four with similar themes.
In reading the stories I had to sit up and take notice, then I had to think. Think about my own beliefs, think about how the authors presented themes, think about the readers who would also think, even if they ended up throwing the entire collection against the wall. I thought about the stories when they made me laugh, or made me cry, or made my heart swell with new faith and affirmation.
This collection does not bash or denounce religion. It does rail against those who pervert the teaching of their faith. It examines why we believe, crave believing in something bigger and grander than ourselves. And it gives me new foundations for my own beliefs.
Believe what you will, in the deity who speaks to you. And I hope you can read these stories and think.
People have great book ideas. Yet despite their best efforts, they find it nearly impossible to complete a single chapter. All too soon they give up, disheartened. In this slender, easy-to-use volume, Phyllis Irene Radford--author of over forty books, and editor of twenty-five books, and fifteen anthologies—gently guides writers through plot structure, realistic characters, dynamic writing, organizational tools, and the publishing industry from an insider’s point of view. So, if you’ve ever thought about writing a novel, this book can help you create a dynamic beginning, conquer the muddle in the middle, and write a powerful and satisfying ending with an experienced teacher holding your hand and giving examples.
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I'm generally pulled in a million different directions and I wouldn't trade it for the world. Here's a glimpse of my life - hope you enjoy it! And if there's a big lapse between posts, well, that's the way life goes in Amy's world.
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