Meet the Bentley Girls!

After months of wedding planning and crafting to keep me away from writing, I finally have my first FULL weekend of nothing to do but immerse myself back into the world of Aevum. Getting back to work on God of Gods feels like finally scratching an itch I haven't been able to reach - a thoroughly pleasurable and satisfying relief.

Of course, getting to focus on playful characters is a huge help in re-establishing my long-ignored writing groove. For those of you who've read Tilt (and for those of you who haven't, get on it!), Mayor Bentley had two daughters who were 16 and 11 then and were referenced several times in the story but were sent to Ostano with their mother to escape before you ever got to meet them. In God of Gods, the girls play a much more integral role and, I have to admit, have absolutely won my heart. I keep finding myself giving them new reasons to appear in a scene simply because they have a youthful energy that propels the story along and sometimes makes it move in directions I didn't originally intend. Ali and Andi Bentley have somehow wound me around their fingers every bit as much as they have their father and I honestly cannot wait to see where these girls lead me next.

Want to meet them? Here's a quick snippet of a scene I'm working on now set during the festivities in Sarano celebrating one full year of recovery after the Tilt that nearly destroyed them:

“Stop fidgeting, Spunkster,” Ali admonished Andi, leaning over to whisper in her ear, “people will think you have fleas!”

“Will not!” Andi whispered back, rolling her eyes dramatically. She always pretended to hate it when her big sister called her by her nickname. “And it’s not my fault. This stupid dress itches too much.”

“Mine does, too,” Ali conceded. Mona had definitely been a little carefree with the tulle when she put these celebration gowns together for the girls. Granted, in the King Jared II box, the most elite private box named for the theater’s most historically renowned patron, their fidgeting was probably more than concealed from any prying eyes. But with this being the first formal event since before the Tilt – not to mention the first official event without their mother – Ali thought it would be best if both Bentley girls were the perfect models of office tonight. Especially if Ali was going to get away with that little side project she’d bribed Mona to finish for her…

“You know what, Spunkster? I’ll bet I can go way longer than you can without scratching,” Ali whispered conspiratorially to Andi. “In fact, I could probably go all the way through the show until we got home,” she added with a shrug, as if nothing could possibly be easier.

Andi eyed her suspiciously. “You couldn’t,” she challenged.

“Could. I’d even bet an entire tray of caramel fudge taffies that I could. If, you know, you like that sort of thing.”

Andi’s eyes lit up like two perfect green moons. “Those are my favorite!”

“Really?” Ali asked in mock surprise. “Well, if you can go all night without scratching, it sounds like I’m going to have to make you a tray as soon as we get home.”

“Before bedtime? Mona would have a fit,” Andi giggled.

“Then it’ll have to be our secret,” Ali winked. 

TILT News and Trailer Release!

If I could do back flips without earning a trip to the ER, I'd be doing them all the way down the street. Possibly even in heels. Why am I so excited?

For starters - MY SEQUEL COMES OUT IN 2 WEEKS!! Honestly, waiting for this second book has been in some ways far harder than the first. Partly because I finished it in February (which feels like YEARS ago right now), but partly because this time around I know more about what to expect from a book launch and I'm dying to take the bull by the horns. And even though it really, totally, and uber-completely feels like it sometimes, I have at least finally come to the conclusion that I won't actually die from the anticipation.

That Never-Ending Moment of Anticipation 

The other reason for my excitement also led to another realization: Inspiration is the bitter ex-wife of the Sandman. I'd decided long ago that I wasn't going to do a book trailer for TILT because it takes such a huge chunk out of my already limited writing time (and I'm making headway on the 3rd book!). It takes time to write the script, research images/video, find music, get the narration worked out...  You get the picture. And, to be honest, I wasn't 100% convinced of the merit of book trailers. 

But that's where the vengeful Inspiration and the dysfunctional relationship with her estranged ex come into play. Last Thursday night I was happily drifting off to sleep when suddenly the thought hit me: "If I were to make a trailer, how would I tell the story?" By the next morning I had - in addition to bags under my eyes - a working script in mind along with image concepts that I was bent on spending the next night refining. Then I got the thread of a song in my mind that I could make work perfectly with the narration. Long story short, after 24 hours of work in one frenzied weekend I managed to compose and record a piano score, write and record the narration, assemble and edit the video, and then drink happy amounts of beer to celebrate.

And now I have the pleasure of sharing with you the little book trailer that refused to not be made. 

FREEBIE ALERT BELOW!

I hope you enjoyed the trailer! As another part of the launch festivities, ALICE WILL for Kindle will be FREE from October 10th to October 14th! If you haven't downloaded your copy yet, mark it on your calendar to get your copy in two weeks! 

Guest Post - Confessions of a 'Serious' Writer

I know I've been remiss in posting my own blogs for the past several months and I promise I'm hanging my head in shame right now. But I'm reeeeaaaallly hoping that the awesome guest post I'm about to give you will, if not earn your instant forgiveness, at least let me buy your love back through bribery.

Vanessa Eccles is one of the many talented authors that I've had the good fortune to become acquainted with over the past year. In that time I've learned that not only is she tirelessly dedicated to the craft, but that she puts that same level of investment into everything she does. She has recently launched an online literary journal showcasing southern writers and has also been documenting the transformation of a house into a loving home on the Ode to the Simple Life Blog. Did I mention that until her recent graduation she was ALSO a full-time student? Her strength, dedication, and energy are definitely an inspiration!

Vanessa Eccles

Her Official Bio:
Vanessa K. Eccles is the founder and executive editor of Belle Reve Literary Journal. She has an English degree from Troy University, and her work has been published by Deep South Magazine,  Suite T (a blog by Southern Writer’s Magazine), and Wisdom Crieth Without. She is the author of Psalms of Me and Collecting Light and is currently working on a YA novel. She blogs at The Writer's Block.

And now, on to Vanessa...

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I've been seriously pursuing a career in writing for about four years now, and with every passing year, I've noticed more eccentricities about myself than the year before. My mind soars into a state of contemplation every time a unique phrase or picturesque landscape emerges, which keeps me constantly thinking about the oddities and utter perfections found in the world around us. Tolkien’s theory on people was “not all who wander are lost.” He’s right – they’re just writers. Writers are natural wanderers. We wander about the world looking for inspiration. And let’s just face it, we can be downright weird. I am no exception to the rule, so I’m going to reluctantly confess some of the things that I've learned about myself since I've become a “serious” writer.

1. I hear voices.

Oh, yes. You read me correctly. Luigi Pirandello described it right in his play Six Characters in Search of an Author. Sometimes characters come to me living and breathing with their own problems and their own stories. Unfortunately, some of these characters are naggy, annoying gnats that will not buzz off until their stories are told. The upside is that this makes me write more so that I can escape from the guilt.

2. I am a dreamer.

I’m not sure it’s possible to pursue a writing career without being somewhat of a dreamer. It’s a tough business, and often the rewards are slim. So for many of us, our real hope with writing is bringing the story to life for readers and having them resonate with something we’ve shared. I dream to someday smell my words and hold them in my hand in a physical print form.

Belle Reve Literary Journal

3. I am a hoarder.

I admit it. Ever since pursuing my dream, I’ve acquired more books than I can house. My ever-growing library can be found stacked on my piano, boxed in the garage, a few in the car, some at my parent’s house, and at least one on every flat surface in my home. It’s madness. But to be a good writer, one has to read. Reading is the study of the craft, but it’s also a crippling disease that has taken over countless hours of my life and has made me, as Phil Robertson would say, “happy, happy, happy.”

4. I’m a spoiler.

My poor husband has just now entered the world of reading, and I’m utterly ecstatic about it! We listen to audiobooks together and discuss them, but I cannot help but tell him where I think the writer is going with the storyline or what I think is going to happen next. Sadly, I’m often right. The same thing happens with movies. I have become one of those horribly annoying people that tell everyone what is going to happen at a movie. Go ahead, throw your digital popcorn at me. I deserve it. I know I need to keep my mouth shut, but it’s an inescapable compulsion. I’m not sure if I’ve become the psychic of entertainment because I write or because I read so much. Either way, I need to stop for the love of my husband and everyone else around me. Wish me luck on that. ;)

5. I’m a loner.

After reading the first four confessions, I’m sure you’re thinking, “She’s a loner because she’s nuts.” And I’m happily inclined to agree with you. I've become more of an introvert over the past few years than I ever thought possible. I enjoy silent time and inward reflection. I love escaping into novels, be it mine or someone else’s. What’s interesting is that writers can be alone and not be alone at the same time. We enjoy our imaginary time filled with our imaginary characters. We’re like kids with imaginary friends – only our friends are better developed and well-rounded. (Well, they’re supposed to be.) And truth be told, writers write when they are alone. So doesn't that make us all loners?
If you’re considering becoming a “serious” writer, I hope I haven’t scared you off. We’re an eccentric group, but we have to be. In order to share something different with the world, we have to be able to see the world in a different way.

In all seriousness, what I’ve really learned about pursuing my writing career is that it’s okay to be myself. That’s what makes me and my writing unique. Nothing is more inspiring than the freedom of being wonderfully weird.

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Thanks so much to Vanessa for her awesome post!! This is such a wonderful description of every writer I know. I can only imagine my friends reading #5 and shaking their heads about all of the times they've accused me of trying out for the Hermit Olympics. Maybe this will help explain things for them :-)

Next Novel Prologue - THE HOTTING

Here is the intro to my next novel set in the magical world of Aevum. Look for this one to continue the adventures of Trotter and Prowler while spoofing many modern political issues of the day. It will also include pirates, gypsies, dragons, magicians, head-strong royalty, and a token geek. Why? Because I can.

It had to start sometime. If by start you actually mean end, that is.

The northernmost point in the bowl of Aevum only sees the sun once every 2,000 years, and even then it only drifts near enough to spill a few hapless rays before remembering itself and backing away in embarrassment. Not that it does any good; the meager rays left behind freeze before they even reach the ground. Everything freezes instantly here, even the intangible. Dotting the borders of this land are small specks in the sky, their wings spread, frozen forever in the final arc of flight as they flew too near the edges of the Temporal Ice Plains.

These are the rimebirds, the only creature in the known universes to have developed a circulatory system with anti-freeze. For daring explorers out to see the famous northern lights, their ominous final flights marked the no-go zone, where the Ice Plains begin and even time itself freezes. Should anyone have been able to survive a trip across the plains they would have seen pockets of time holding humans and even strange creatures from the furthest reaches of time and imagination in terrifying statuesque scenes. They had been frozen in the early days when the temporal freeze was still expanding, laying unseen traps for those who hunted and lived near the once-habitable plains. It had been a storm that lasted millennia, one with all of the power of a hurricane and the haste of mountains. But the boundaries had been stable for centuries now, the birds on its fringe anywhere from dozens to hundreds of years old.

High above the blue expanse of the plains, facing south toward the sun were it not so far away, was the tiniest ruffling of white feathers. This was followed by a larger rustle as a wing caught wind for the first time in decades, and followed further by the squawking of a bird with some very confused memories and stiff wings as it fell away from the borders of the Temporal Ice Plains.  Further away, another white dot wheeled similarly away from its prison in the frozen pocket of time.

Unseen, a few strands of belated time uncurled from the fringe like lazy smoke and drifted out into the world.

Winter was ending. Something new was beginning. Something new, and also something very old.

Novel Excerpt - "Alice Will"

This is a section from my latest young adult fantasy - "Alice Will". In this scene, teenage demi-goddess Trotter is fighting a new foe: boredom. With Prowler, an enchanted cat that is both her friend and guardian, she roams the docks of Sarano.

There is a universal law which naturalists and scientists have yet to discover that supplies that anywhere people gather or pass through, someone will arrive to sell them food. It is due in large part to the tremendous attractive force between the street creature known as a vendor and the gold residing in the pockets of anyone who isn’t them. This is why within a fifty foot walk along the bay Trotter and Prowler were able to purchase and devour two fresh steamed cods, a sampling of shrimp, fried caramel snaps, banana pastries, and a very large syrupy fruit drink made with fizzy water. Trotter was just finishing off a deliciously sticky taffy dainty when they reached the foot of Poorbetters St. and a new sign caught her eye.

“Hey, look! The boys have a new store.”

“I heard about that. Apparently a child in the west side started asking too many questions about one of the gadgets and the parents got suspicious. So, they packed up shop, changed the name a little, and here they are. Good choice, too. People around here aren’t into asking questions.”

The store ahead of them had a sign that advertised “Pratt, Pratts, Potts, and Pot: Items of Technific Wonder.” Though the quartet had moved around quite a bit they were always simple to find by those who knew them. The store in the illustrious west end of Sarano had been called “Pat, Pratt, Pots, and Potter,” and the store before that had been of another similar variation. The reason for their constant moving was that after a while people would catch on to who they really were and chunks of brick would invariably be hurled through their window at best or, at worst, flaming bottles would be thrown in the night. Yet this didn’t deter the young men whose names were actually Pratt, Pratt, Pratt, and Pratt.

Pratt was, or Pratts were, if you will, a mage. Early in his life he discovered that he had a natural aptitude for magical inventions and also discovered that he had far too many ideas and inventions to create than he could do alone in one life time. His solution was as simple as it was impossibly insane. Rather than attempt to find another mage to work with he decided that he worked better by himself, so that is exactly what he chose to do. Using a little-known loophole in Scatcatter’s Infundibulum Dispersal he cast a small net in time and caught himself from one second in the future. With the help of his slightly future self, he repeated the process two more times until Pratt was certain he had enough help for his creations. The only drawback was that he tended to fall into a four second loop in his conversations with other people. Therefore, only two Pratts worked in the front of the store at any time while the other two worked feverishly in the workshop constructing toys that were part magical and part mechanical.

It was generally held among the public that yes, magic existed and yes, it’s quite handy to have around when someone gets ill or the dragons get frisky again, but it’s not really proper, is it? And so it was that they tended to become uncomfortable around practitioners of magic. When groups of uncomfortable people gather together they typically become a group of angry people quite quickly if for no other reason than that it seems to be fashionable at the time.

Magic was never fashionable in the trendy and modern city of Sarano. It signaled a time when people, chiefly people with money, were not in control and put them largely in mind of pitch forks and torches. It was tolerated, however, in the same way that mice are tolerated to exist so long as they did not appear in one’s kitchen.

The Pratts made beautiful toys and time-saving inventions that could practically prepare and cook an entire meal if the buyer had enough gold to spend. However, in order to entice an affluent citizen to purchase one of their magical goods they’d had to be creative, and even a little devious. Pratt, one or all of them, came up with the name technifical to describe the creations and called himself, themselves, an engineer. Since everyone knew that nobody could understand an engineer anyway they seldom asked them what technifical meant. If a brave or morbidly curious soul did ask then they would be ambushed with terms like reversible inverse momentum, floppy circuits, limited infinite quantities, and quantifiable unknowns until the listener gave up and went away pale, shaken, and confused.

Still, from time to time an enterprising mind would dissect one of their wonders and discover that where they’d expected to find clockwork was nothing but seemingly sparkly air or sometimes even a flapping butterfly. Then the Pratts would have to pack up their store and move yet again. It no longer bothered them, actually. It was a matter of pride to them that they were never in one place long enough for the property tax bill to arrive.

The newest incarnation of their store stood in front of Trotter with the promise of at least one thing: it would alleviate an entire morning’s worth of boredom in one stop.

“Let’s go in for a visit,” she said, swallowing the last of her taffy.

“Not this time. We need to get back and wait for Miro.”

“Oh, come on, it’s right on the way! It won’t take long.” She started heading toward the door.

“You promised!” Prowler called behind her indignantly.

“What? I can’t hear you. You should speak up when you’re so far away,” she taunted back as the door to the shop began to close behind her. Prowler darted through the door before it could shut on his tail.

“Five minutes. Then we really have to go. I’m getting bad feeling right down to my whiskers now.”

“Don’t be such a fraidy cat.” As soon as she stepped through the door the buzzing of toys and gizmos filled her ears. As she wandered down an aisle a small rodent sized toy zipped in front of her, pausing only long enough to squeak a tinny apology before hurrying along. In the corner a toy bird was flapping from wall to wall while a life-like toy frog hopped into her hands. It had a small key turning in its back, but she knew it was only for show. That key turned nothing at all and never needed winding. But it made it look less magical and therefore more acceptable to the parents of proper children with the pockets full of gold.

Novel Excerpt - "Of War and Taters"

This excerpt is from my second novel, "Of War and Taters." It is a satire for young adults or the young at heart. Think of this town as Mayberry with a little bit of South Park thrown in for giggles. In this scene, Isabelle - Sheriff Stanley's slightly homicidal wife - is extending her reign of terror over the stray that wandered into her yard that morning.  

Not terribly far across town was a dog that was having second thoughts, or would be, if dogs could have second thoughts. They would have been big ones, too. Just this morning he’d been the king of his domain; he knew where the best trash could be found, he knew he could find cold water at the fountain in the park anytime he was thirsty, and he had the whole world to play in if he wanted it. All of that withstanding, it was a very good thing dogs have such a short memory because now Mr. Cuddle Face’s only concern in the world was with getting his new blue collar off before someone saw him wearing rhinestones.

“Oh, look at oo, Mr. Cuddle Face! What did ums do?” A new concern was firmly etched into the animal’s short term memory as the big loud face showed up again with, he was certain, some new horror for him. As it was, he’d managed to slip his back paw up underneath the collar and was now struggling to both extract his paw and push off his collar at the same time while rotating on his free legs. The result was something that resembled a dog losing a ferret fight on top of a tripod.

Isabelle leaned over the pup, pulled his paw from the offending collar and brought him up nose to nose with her. This, small dog owners everywhere should know, is far more terrifying for the average dog than one would imagine. Another positive deficiency here for Mr. Cuddle Face is the fact that he could not see color; if he could he’d have been rather more alarmed by the bright red lipstick puckered up at the end of his snout which matched the curly mass of red hair that kept tickling his ears.

Already today he’d been tossed into a bathtub and scrubbed no less than three times with a tropical bubble bath despite his howls and hopeless growls. The end product was that he now smelled less like a sewer and more like a trash bin behind a daiquiri bar. It was a marked improvement as far as Isabelle was concerned, but the only response it provoked from the dog was that his tail now smelled far more interesting than it used to when he chased it. After the baths he had been left in the bathroom floor a wet soppy mess while she ran out to find him the perfect leash and collar. On her return, Isabelle also had the unkind idea to use the blow-dryer and a comb to hurry things along in the drying department. That caused no small amount of uncustomary fluffiness to his coat. Then, as if the humiliation hadn’t been laid on thickly enough already, he’d been paraded around the street at the end of his shiny new leash and collar. He’d spent the entire time being mostly dragged as he was too busy gnawing at the leash attached to him to pay attention to unfamiliar commands like stay, heel, and don’t poo there.

Isabelle carried the cowed creature with her into the kitchen where she’d begun preparing Stanley’s dinner. She couldn’t stand meatloaf, but she knew he was expecting to come home and find his traditional Tuesday meatloaf with his favorite dish of green bean casserole next to it. She set Mr. Cuddle Face down in the corner of the kitchen nearest the door where she’d already placed his food dishes. Fortunately for him, the speed with which Isabelle had managed to get personalized dishes with his new name on them was a miracle that was lost to Mr. Cuddle Face. At any rate, he was certainly not grateful for the brown lumps of high fiber diet dog food he found therein. He turned his nose up at the dishes and sauntered over to her side at the stove where he could smell the signs of some certainly non-high fiber activity going on. He affected his best hungry puppy whine to get her attention.

“No, Mr. Cuddle Face, this is people food. You go back over to your bowl and eat your yummy beef and gravy.”  His look as he walked back to the bowl said that he was certainly not willing to concede that the gray gelatinous matter in the bowl was indeed gravy.

“That’s a good baby boy, yes you are!” Isabelle turned back to the meatloaf which she was heavily salting, as was her habit. A second look at the white canister she’d been shaking liberally over the meatloaf had a picture of a smiling puppy, which she didn’t remember seeing on the salt shaker before. She turned it over in her hands and read the words “Mr. Scratchy’s Flea Powder, For Contented Canines!” Another turn revealed a skull and cross bones design indicating that it should under no circumstances be consumed. A small smile danced across her lips.

“Silly me! I must have set it right next to the salt and didn’t realize it.” She accidentally knocked a little more into the mixture with a minor exclamation of “Oops!” and set the flea powder down and picked up the similar salt canister next to it. “Well, Mr. Cuddle Face, I’ll bet if we put enough salt in here he’ll never notice it. You won’t tell on me, will you sweetums?” Her smile swirled with a mixture of innocent sweetness and slightly homicidal intent as she hummed happily to herself.

Somewhere in the vicinity of her feet Mr. Cuddle Face was busy expressing his feelings about the beef lumps and gravy paste in his bowl by piddling on the kitchen rug.