Category: Writing

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Drive-by Balloon Purchases

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During the past weeks, I’d lost five balloons to the heat and humidity. For a while, the stores stopped selling them, or didn’t sell as many. On July 22nd, I had my dental surgery. Since then, I’ve packed on five Mylar balloons. No, make that seven. Definitely seven. One was a present for a job well done. Another was a sleeper I bought at Giant. Three were hallway rescues, that is, lone balloons looking for a home. They’ll make great sleepers, too. Two others were drive-by balloon purchases. Drive-by, meaning I park the car near the store, run inside to buy one item, then back to the car. Except that something else accompanies me on the way to the car.

Every two weeks, I prepare meals for the Aid For Friends, but this time, I ran short on chicken patties. So I stopped by the Acme, realizing a buy-one-get-one-free sale. Trouble was, a horde of Mylar birds perched by the door. I had to get past them to get to my chicken. One of them flew after me and landed on my shoulder, singing “Bye Bye Birdie.”
I haven’t owned a Mylar bird in years. I do now.
Four days ago, I got a five dollar coupon for CVS. Thought I’d do a drive-by and get a pediatric toothbrush for my sensitive gums. I had trouble deciding which toothbrush to get, and my indecision cost me. I didn’t expect the corral of balloons to sit idle while I pussyfooted around the toothbrushes, did I?

Last Christmas, I did a drive-by to pick up refreshments for a party. Ditto balloon purchase.

Lately, these drive-by purchases have yielded more balloons than leisurely shopping with a big grocery list. Let’s say I’m on the road and thinking about getting a sandwich. Before I stop anywhere, I have to ask myself if the store sells balloons. If I don’t, something might accompany that sandwich. Tomorrow I’m heading to CVS to pick up Mike’s medicine. I’ve got a coupon, too. Oh, boy. I’d better look out.

I said I’d lost five balloons before I had the dental work. But I sure as heck found them!

This Mylar balloon belongs to Barbara Custer, author of zombie fiction.

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Interview with Gregory Delaurentis, Author of Cover of Darkness

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BLURB:  

A high-profile murder of a Wall Street executive in Westchester pits three people against the criminal underbelly of Manhattan nightlife. The key players are two ex-cops turned private investigators—Kevin Whitehouse, whose sharpest tool is his keen analytical mind, and David Allerton, a former Special Forces operative—and Margaret Alexander, Kevin’s lover. In their search for a killer, they are forced to travel to the edge of sanity and morality, while stumbling onto their own confusing secrets as well. The Cover of Darkness is a gritty noir saga that untangles a web of deceit in the course of tracking down a brutal murderer.

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Barbara: What do you think you’re really bad at?

Gregory: I am absolutely horrible at social settings. I find human interaction harder and harder as I get older. I was a very jovial person at one time in my life but after the tragedy at 9/11 of which I was a part of, I developed a debilitating condition called Social Anxiety where I am most comfortable alone and in silence. My friends drag me out of my very comfortable and cocoon-like apartment to socialize with others, and this I fail at miserably. When they bring people around to introduce them to me I shut down, mutter replies, turn my attention elsewhere, and quickly ignore them because I can’t stand the scrutiny. I am undergoing treatment for my disorder, but until there’s some form of breakthrough, I am pretty confident in saying that I’m really bad at social situations.

Barbara: Is your life anything like it was two years ago?

Gregory: Absolutely not. Two years ago I was in the shelter system, being homeless for two years before that and living in the streets. But I struggled, got into the shelter system, worked my way to an apartment in the city and now I am self-sufficient and free to write my books. Hopefully this is a first step of many to move my life forward.  I am a true believer in making one’s path better and brighter as best as one can. This can only be done with blood, sweat and tears. I’ve given up all three, and I still do on a daily basis. My live isn’t anything like it was two years ago, and if I can help it, it’ll be nothing like it is two years from now.

Barbara: Have you ever had an imaginary friend?

Gregory: Yes, although I don’t remember him well. My parents used to tell me this story of my invisible friend named Tom and how we used to play in the yard around a beaten up old washing machine, or chase each other around trees and fences. I have glimpses of these things, but I don’t really remember much about Tom or what he was like, his personality, his likes or dislikes, although what I do recollect is fun with him. He brought me joy.

Barbara: Do you have any phobias?

Gregory: Two. Fear of heights and fear of bugs. I feel uncomfortable before opened windows or on rooftops with low parapets. I don’t like being far off the ground, like in skyscrapers or planes, although I will do both if need be. Further, I find bugs distasteful and I dread looking at them.  It takes a great deal of effort from me to kill one, especially a cockroach.

Barbara: Tell us about your latest release.

Gregory: My latest release chronicles the story of three people, Kevin Whitehouse, a man who is off the New York Police force because of suffering from a nervous breakdown after a terrific car accident. Through his psychiatrist he is paired with another officer that is off the force on disability, David Allerton, and together they decide to become private detectives. But they are relied upon by a police captain to solve a murder in Westchester that is a little too hot for the local police force.  Kevin has a keen, analytical mind and can take apart clues and shine a light in dark areas. David is more of a field agent who takes Kevin’s hunches to the streets and ferrets out the guilty parties. Kevin also has a girlfriend, the third person in the triangle, Margaret Alexander who aids Kevin in his investigatory talent, giving him a sound board to bounce his ideas off of, and a different insight on matters.  Between the three of them they delve into the murder of a Wall Street executive, entering the glitzy nightlife of the city, and its dark denizens to find the killer.

AUTHOR INFORMATION:

Gregory Delaurentis spent his adult life roaming from job to job, working for Lockheed in California, various law firms in New York, and financial firms on Wall Street. Throughout this period of time, he was writing—unceasingly—finally producing a large body of work, albeit unrecognized and unpublished . . . until now. Cover of Darkness is the first in a series of upcoming books that include Edge of Darkness, Pale of Darkness and Cries of Darkness. These novels follow the lives of three individuals who do battle bringing criminals to justice, while they struggle to understand the complex relationships that exist among themselves. This intriguing trio has absorbed the attention of Mr. Delaurentis for the past year and a half, so much so he decided to self-publish their stories to bring them to a wider audience. [AUTHOR’S DISCLAIMER: These are works of fiction. Name, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used factitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.]

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Vendor links

1) AMAZON  http://www.amazon.com/Cover-Darkness-1-Gregory-Delaurentis/dp/0989185702/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1365639244&sr=1-1&keywords=cover+of+darkness+gregory+delaurentis
2) KOBO  http://www.kobobooks.com/ebook/Cover-of-Darkness/book-SydhWnuMdEGT2jO97s6rDA/page1.html?s=znZMkhZzw0yjFAMp-WIkpQ&r=1
3) BARNES & NOBLE http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/cover-of-darkness-gregory-delaurentis/1115107265?ean=9780989185707
3) SMASHWORDS  https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/304457

General links

2) https://www.facebook.com/pages/Cover-of-Darkness/435819953132527

3) https://twitter.com/cupgrease

EXCERPT

The pool area was wide and reflected the sun on this hot summer day. It was edged with white marble so polished that it looked like pearl. Deck chairs lined the sides of the long pool, which was two lengths more than Olympic-sized. Outside the deck area was the carpeted lawn of the vast backyard, dappled with sun.

Hugh Osterman walked along the side of the pool wearing a heavy terry cloth robe and sandals. In his right hand, he held a martini glass. He ran his left hand through his sandy sun-streaked hair as he looked over his shoulder at the man following him.

“What’s going on? I don’t get it,” Osterman said, stopping at the end of the pool where the flotation chairs were kept.

“They said no,” the man replied. Considering the backdrop, he was incongruously dressed in a dark suit and tie.

“They said no . . . just like that?”

Osterman sat his drink down on the marble surface, and pushed a flotation chair into the deep end of the pool, sending it out and away. Then he peeled off the robe and dove smoothly into the water, emerging next to the floating chair.

“You go back and tell them that we aren’t pleased,” Osterman said sternly, pulling himself up and into the seat of the chair. “You tell them that Hugh Osterman wants to know what’s holding things up—what the problem is.”

The suit just stood at the edge of the pool, opening his jacket against the heat of the day. Osterman paddled to the side, and reached out and retrieved his martini glass. “I take it you have nothing to say about this?” he persisted, despite the other man’s silence.

The suit shook his head.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” Osterman said as he tipped the glass up to his lips. Suddenly, the bottom of the stem shattered. Osterman gurgled as he dropped the glass, blood bubbling from his mouth, an open tear in his neck. He jolted upright in the chair as the suit closed the distance between them, his Colt .38 Super still trained on its victim, its silencer smoldering.

Osterman slowly sat back as the suit pumped more rounds into Osterman’s bare, well-defined chest—the hot shells of his pistol ejecting out and striking the surface of the water, settling to the bottom. His life ended as his body tumbled from the floating chair, his blood a widening crimson slick roughly in the area where his body slipped through.

The suit popped his clip, slipped in a new one, and headed for the sprawling house.

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One randomly chosen commenter will win a $50 Amazon/BN gift card. 

 

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School’s in Session

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I’d like to think of it as schooling for me because I find myself tripping on the difference between “lie” and “lay” as well as other words. When I was little, I overheard a construction worker talk about horses, and I thought they were referring to the equine version. If the English language was confusing for people growing up in the US of A, then I feel for people learning the language as adults. They’ve got to deal with our idioms and slang. When I’m writing or editing, I’ve found www.urbandictionary.com one of my best friends. Some of the words below have stumped me and I suspect they confuse others, so I’m reviewing the difference between each one.

Aggravate / irritate
Aggravate means to make worse. Irritate means to annoy or disturb.
Cold weather aggravates my pain.
The automated telephone systems really irritate me.

Cement / concrete
Most people use these terms interchangeably, but “cement” and “concrete” have completely different meanings, as you’ll find out if you ask a Home Depot salesman for concrete. Cement is a powder that you mix with other materials to form a solid mass known as concrete. Cement porches, cement pavements, and cement overpasses don’t exist. All of these are concrete.

Everyday / every day
Every day means literally “each day,” as in: I admire my balloons every day.
“Everyday” is an adjective synonymous with “ordinary.” Purchasing Mylar balloons is an everyday occurrence for me.

Loathe / loath
“Loath” is an adjective meaning “unwilling. It rhymes with “growth.” Ex: I am loath to travel in the wintertime.
“Loathe” is a verb meaning “to hate intensely.” It ends with a soft “th” like smooth.
Example: I loathe cold weather.

Less / fewer
These words are easy to mix up, since both mean the opposite of more.
Use “fewer” if you’re referring to quantities of things or people. Example: Because my house was getting crowded, I’ve had to buy fewer balloons.

Use “less” when you’re referring to things that can’t be counted or doesn’t have a plural, as in:
Some jobs pay less money.
This week, I bought less food.

Further / farther
Farther pertains to physical distance and “further” for figurative distance. Hint: farther has the word “far” in it, as in: how much farther do we have to go?
Further applies to metaphorical or figurative distance. Example: If my balloons tangle further with my fan, I’m putting them in a separate room. I’m not talking about physical distance. I’m talking about a figurative distance, i.e. the extent of my balloons tangling with the fan.

Okay, many of the examples involve balloons. I don’t think any blog would be complete without at least one reference to my balloons. Maybe someday I’ll ride in a hot air balloons. This brings me to another confusing word set – someday versus some day. “Someday” means an indefinite time in the future, but “some” is an adjective indicating a specific day. Example: I’m heading to the grocery store some day this week.

There are dozens of other word sets that confuse people. Can you think of any?

Steel Rose features zombie fiction by Barbara Custer

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Angel of Syn Author Shares Thoughts on Outlining

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Angel of Syn features paranormal thriller.Outlines are the Zombies Eating my Brain

As a writer, I’m constantly striving to improve my craft. There’s a ton of information and advice out there. But it seems everywhere I’ve looked lately has led to experts and/or seasoned writers talking about outlining stories. They lecture the need to lay the bones of the plot in the right sequence so elbows are attached to arms instead of legs and heads sit atop necks, not hip bones. I have no doubt that this is very desirable when building a person-shaped thing. But what if the thing is story-shaped?

I confess to being the type of writer than sits at the keyboard with only the barest wisp of an idea before plunging ahead. The voices in my head tell me what to do next. Wait. That didn’t sound right. My story characters’ voices in my head tell me what to do next. Better.

My attempts at outlines feel like Doctor Frankenstein’s creation but not as handsome or talented at tap-dancing. I’ve tried to create outlines. Really. Many times. In different mediums and multiple colors. I’ve built my skeletons, even grown some flesh on them. But what comes shambling out is not what I intended at all.

And they all want to eat my brain.

Okay, maybe it just feels like they want to chomp on my gray matter. The theory of outlining a story is a solid one. It makes perfect sense, and seems like an exceedingly logical way to proceed. The problem is that, like zombies, outlines are scary, partially formed things chasing after you with serious noshing on their minds or stomachs, whatever. To me, the thought of writing to an outline is like that of a zombie eagerly sucking brains through a straw sticking out of a hole in my head – akin to a coconut husk cocktail on Tiki night at the Luau.

So why even try to outline if it doesn’t work for me? I have a guilty little squirmy feeling that I haven’t really given outlining a chance. And I might be missing out on a really good thing. The zombie might not be irredeemable. Like the zombie guy in Warm Bodies, there might be a heartbeat under the disintegrating skin of its chest. So, I want to believe. I want to believe that the magical properties of outlining will be able to transform the zombie into a hot guy, uh, I mean, into a useful member of society (no, I really meant hot guy). I’m going to try outlining my third novel to the Synemancer trilogy (tentatively titled Dark Syns). And if I have any brain matter left after that, I’ll call it a success and be enlightened to the joys of outlining. Unfortunately, just typing that last sentence made something dribble out of my ear. Well, let’s see what happens.

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Angel of Syn features a paranormal thriller.BLURB:

Contemporary witch Cara Augustine goes international and inter-dimensional, from San Francisco to France to an alternate Eden-like dimension, in this second book of the Synemancer series.

Cara is a fugitive, pursued by the Portalkind police for breaking a major covenant. When she accidentally made a werewolf her witch’s familiar, it amounted to enslaving a human. And the punishment is death. On the run for her life, she and her companions stumble into a strange paradise dimension. But they quickly find the dangerous world is filled with strange creatures, deadly and beautiful. And, because she’s quickly learning a Synemancer’s life is never simple.  Cara has to deal with an amorous Nephilim (half-angel half-witch), a dangerously deranged French werewolf, and the darkly handsome Nightkind she just might love. Each powerful supernatural man has his own reasons for wanting to possess Cara, body and soul. But if the Portalkind police catch her, she’ll be in a fight for her life.

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The Angel of Syn features a paranormal thriller.I currently live with my husband and dogs in northern California.  I have a son who attends college in San Francisco. After years of working in the business world while secretly wishing I could be a writer, I finally took a leap of faith and started writing. My first book, SYN IN THE CITY, was published in 2010 and I haven’t looked back since.  Well maybe a few glances in the rearview mirror, just to see if anyone was tailing me, but not many.

Website:  www.mertianna.com

Facebook:  https://www.facebook.com/pages/Mertianna-Georgia-Books/155028037896400?fref=ts

Buy Links:

Amazon Print:  http://www.amazon.com/Angel-Syn-Mertianna-Georgia/dp/1610261186/ref=tmm_pap_title_0?ie=UTF8&qid=1359358824&sr=1-1

Amazon EBook:  http://www.amazon.com/Angel-Syn-Synemancer-Series-ebook/dp/B00B5EGYA0/ref=tmm_kin_title_0?ie=UTF8&qid=1359358824&sr=1-1

Mertianna will be awarding a canvas tote bag printed with the book cover on one side and a saying on the other (“Are you a syn-er?”), and filled with goodies plus a $20 Amazon gift card to a randomly drawn commenter during the tour (S ONLY).

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Excerpt:

Bart straightened from his defensive semi-crouch, still eyeing the Hounds warily. I glanced around the room to see if the orbs were here, but they were nowhere in sight. The mirror chimed and shimmered for the umpteenth time since I’d come into the room. A tall, pale man dressed in black and wearing a black backpack walked into the room. Azrael stood silently on Amelia’s hardwood floor, and by the expression on his beautiful face, he was angry enough to chew spells and spit out hexes.  He quickly scanned the room.   His ice-blue eyes focused on me and I had his full attention.  All Hades was about to break loose.  With two weres, two Hellhounds, and a Nightkind in the room, the situation was about to get bloody.

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When Balloons Lead to Change for a Website

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I’m going to begin with a balloon story.

The other day, the Acme had great sales on items I needed, but they had a plethora of lovely Mylar balloons. So I put on my track shoes with the intention of running through the store, snatching up groceries as I went, so that the balloons wouldn’t catch me. I shopped early in the morning so that the store would be empty, allowing the run.

As the doors slid open, I barreled in…and collided with a grove of Mylar Margaritas and other balloons. So much for running. A Mylar Margarita snagged around my shoulders and plopped on my head. I continued running, hoping to dislodge my Mylar rider, but it clung to my head. Rather than be called on shoplifting, I paid for the balloon, explaining that it stuck to my hair. Got a lot of giggles for that one.

That’s right, Bar-ba-ra, the balloon whispered. You can run, but you can’t hide.

Mylar balloon Barbara Custer loves her zombie fiction.Out of the mouths of balloons come words of wisdom. For months I’ve been avoiding the issues with the print on my website. Running away from the problem, if you will, but I couldn’t hide. The glaring green hyperlinks kept staring at me every time I added or changed material on the website. I kept telling myself I’d read a book on CSS to change the font myself. It never happened.

Then the “aha” moment came to me at the Philadelphia Writers Conference when Cecily Kellogg discussed blogging and recommended dark print on a light background.  Those words slammed me against my chair as I got to thinking about my red background, white and green print. Tiny print. Change can be frightening. You can run, but you can’t hide, the balloon whispered.

I started reading posts about the best color combinations for blogs and websites, and got mixed opinions. So I ran a poll on Facebook, and the dark print on white background won hands down. The responses were helpful and much appreciated.  A couple of years ago, I’d entertained Walter Mitty fantasies of having a Zombie Apocalypse theme for my website. These fantasies rekindled, and I installed the theme. It gave me red print for the links and black for the posts.

Over the next weeks, I will likely want to do some tweaking with the images, but I feel great about the graphics and readability of the print.  Thank you, Miss Margarita Balloon, for pointing out the need to change.

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When a Witch Hides to Survive…M. Lathan’s Hidden

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M. Lathan's Hidden features a paranormal thriller.I am delighted to host M. Lathan as a guest blogger. Before reading her post, I thought I was the only writer reluctant to release her tales. Do other writers tend to hover? I think so…

The hardest part about writing is…

Writing is difficult work. Enjoyable, but difficult. Plotting, creating compelling characters, and editing are just a few of the tough tasks writers are faced with. But to me, the hardest part about writing is releasing a story.

While the technical issues of putting your work out there – querying agents or self-publishing, marketing, designing book covers, or writing a synopsis or description – are daunting tasks on their own, to me, releasing a book is difficult for one major reason: writers care and are personally connected to their work.

The story started as a tiny thing inside of your head and you’ve slowly developed it, nurtured it, and with great effort, brought it out of your mind and put it into words on a screen. Like a new mother or father, you’re hovering, being cautious, or screaming at it when you haven’t had any rest. You’re polishing polished scenes and making excuses to why it’s not ready to be out on its own.

Sometimes, a lot of times with me, it isn’t ready. It needs more love and discipline. It needs more time. The difficult part is distinguishing the times when you’re hovering and when your story baby really can’t make it in the world on its own.

I’m constantly trying to find a balance with this. In the past, I’ve tended to brush off my concerns and rush. Now, I’m becoming a bit of a hoverer. If I had to choose a side to be on, I think I’d rather hover than rush. However, if you hover too long, you may never take that leap.

Of course this isn’t the only aspect of writing you have to master, but, in my opinion, learning how to balance being cautious and trusting your story is the biggest hurdle writers will face.

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M. Lathan's Hidden features a paranormal thriller.BLURB:  

Sixteen-year-old Leah Grant has given up on being normal. She’d settle for stopping the voices in her head, intrusive visions of the future, and better odds of making it to her seventeenth birthday.

That’s the thing about pretending to be human in a world where magic used to exist – at any moment, her cover could be blown and she’ll be burned to death like the rest of the witches.

Everything changes when she loses control of her powers and flees the orphanage she grew up in. She desperately wants to be invisible but finds her face plastered on every news channel as humans panic over the possible resurgence of her kind. And now the hunters won’t give up until they find her.

Making friends for the first time in her life and falling in love with one of them drives her to discover why she is unlike any being she’s ever met – human or otherwise. The dangerous powers inside of her that would repel Nathan, her new, handsome reason for living, are priceless to some. The locked up forever kind of priceless. And to others, they are too dangerous to allow her to live.

Let’s hope she can stay hidden.

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M. Lathan's Hidden features a paranormal thriller.Author Information:

M. Lathan lives in San Antonio with her husband and mini-schnauzer. She enjoys writing and has a B.S. in Psych and a Masters in Counseling. Her passion is a blend of her two interests – creating new worlds and stocking them with crazy people. She enjoys reading anything with interesting characters and writing in front of a window while asking rhetorical questions … like her idol Carrie Bradshaw.

 

Links:

Website: mlathan.com

Twitter: @hiddenseries

Buy links: Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=B00A6301BO

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Excerpt:

Sienna snatched last week’s Chemistry test from my desk. I hadn’t turned it over. I knew it was a D minus.

She cackled and passed it around.

“Leah, you would think someone who spends most of her time alone would have better grades,” she said. Her birds laughed on cue. “What do you do all day? Obviously not study.” She gasped slowly like she’d gotten a revelation in that blonde head of hers. “You fantasize about us, don’t you? You probably sleep in Whit’s old bed to feel close to her.”

Laughter spread around the room like an airborne disease. Disease. I shivered. That was an intriguing thought; I could almost hear the sound their bodies would make against the floor when it hit.

“Leah, come on. Say something. Scream at me, it’s been a while. At least cry,” Sienna said, laughing and leaning into my desk, closer to danger.

I didn’t cry. I never cry. And if I were going to, it wouldn’t be because of Sienna. I had bigger problems. I’d just broken a promise I’d made to God to not think about hurting His people, His children. And today was not the day to piss Him off.

My old roommate, Whitney Nguyen, graciously returned my test as she cackled with the rest of the birds. She liked the idea of me pining over her, but she knew I didn’t spend my free time thinking about her or sleeping in her old bed. After fourteen years of hard labor as my roommate, she’d given up on being friends or me being remotely normal. The current theory to explain my oddness was that I was in love with all of the girls and consumed by lust.

As long as they didn’t know it was magic.

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One randomly chosen commenter will win a $50 Amazon/BN.com gift card.

M. Lathan's Hidden features a paranormal thriller.

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