@Marie_McKean on Things Authors Should Know #WriteTip #Paranormal #Horror

-       Writing is HARD!! If you’re looking for something easy to do, well, look somewhere else.

-       It costs a lot of money to write. True story. Just ask any author about the expenses of publishing. Editing, covers, marketing, promotions, giveaways . . . seriously, it gets expensive – Fast!

-       That money you spent, well, don’t expect it to be coming back anytime soon. If you were getting into writing to make money, look somewhere else. Even if you have a frickin’ amazing story, its still going to take a while for you to see any kind of return.

-       Writing is lonely. Even if you make critique friends and have a huge support network, you’re a lone soldier for most of the time. Luckily, most authors are introverts, so I suppose it works out. Unless, of course, you’re not.

-       Query letters are the bane of an author’s existence.

-       Rejection letters are possibly the even banier part of an author’s existence.

-       You know when you can’t think about anything else but the story your currently writing that you’re going in the right direction.

-       You’ll probably cry when you read your first couple reviews; whether they’re good or bad.

-       The publishing industry moves slow. And as an author you are so excited and want things to happen now . . .but its not going to happen that way.

You have to really enjoy the journey because it is long and hard.

YOU CANNOT CHANGE THE LIFE YOU’VE BEEN GIVEN.

All that you can do is make the most of what you’ve been dealt—fight a good fight, resist being beaten by circumstance, and hope that somehow, despite it all, you’re able to accomplish the impossible.

But even then you cannot change the fact that you were born cursed.

I am one of those unlucky few upon whom the Curse of the Four Fathers has fallen.

It is I who must bear the burden of having a life that is unchangeably intertwined with the Fae. A sorrow made all the more great by knowing that where they are tragedy, loss, misery, and despair most assuredly follow.

As a Druid it is my responsibility to uphold the boundaries that keep the worlds of the Tylwyth Teg, and our own, separate. As a man it is my only ambition to protect the family and woman I so desperately love.

The only problem: I’m not sure this curse will allow for me to do both.

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Genre - Paranormal Fantasy, Horror

Rating – PG-13

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Website https://www.mariemckean.com

HIGH MAGA #Excerpt by Karin Rita Gastreich @EolynChronicles #Fantasy #MustRead

Eolyn’s words drifted into silence. She bit her lip and looked away.

“The Queen is with child.” Renate stepped forward, her sharp tone a fine match for that hawkish face. “She is about two months along, my Lord King. This is the primary reason for her indisposition.”
Felton clapped his hands in joy. “Praise the Gods!”

Akmael watched Eolyn. She did not return his gaze but instead studied her hands, working restlessly against each other. The memory of their recent nights stirred inside him, like wind through the high branches of an ancient fir, beautiful and poignant. Ephemeral in time, enduring in the imagination.

“We would recommend the Queen return to the King’s City as soon as possible,” continued Renate, shoulders stiff and back as straight as an arrow. “Preferably by litter. She should not mount a horse again, not until the baby comes to term. Do you not agree, Maga Eolyn?”

Eolyn blinked at the sound of her name and nodded. “Yes, of course. She requires a warmer climate and the comfort of her home, if the baby is to come to term successfully.”

Akmael turned to Felton. “Have a litter readied by morning, and send a messenger at once to the City to advise High Mage Rezlyn. He is to meet us in Rhiemsaven. We will send her by royal barge from there to Moisehén.”

“As you wish, my Lord King.” Felton bowed and started down the hall, muttering his list of tasks and marking them on chubby fingers.

Akmael turned his attention back to Eolyn and Renate. The High Maga had retreated to her own thoughts, while the older woman watched him with arched brows and an unabashed stare.

“It would seem the Queen disposed of the herbs we sent the other day,” Renate said, “an unfortunate decision as they would have been of great help to her now.”

“We will gather additional medicines this afternoon and have a fresh bundle sent by evening.” Eolyn spoke as if measuring her words to soften Renate’s accusatory tone. “The Queen must make use of them, otherwise it will be a hard journey from here to Rhiemsaven.”

“I will see it done,” Akmael replied.

Eolyn nodded. Her hand drifted to her throat and found the silver web at its base, a jewel of magic that he had given to her long ago. “I suppose we are finished here, then. If it pleases you, my Lord King, Renate and I will take our leave.”

“Maga Renate is dismissed. I would have a word with you alone, Maga Eolyn, before you depart.”
Renate set her lips in a firm line, and directed a questioning gaze at her companion.

Eolyn’s shoulders deflated, but she laid a hand on the old maga’s arm and said, “Find Sir Borten and have him prepare the horses, would you, Renate? You can wait for me in the courtyard. I won’t be a moment.”

Renate gave a stiff bow and departed.

Akmael drew close to Eolyn and invoked a sound ward about them. She did not retreat, nor did she move to touch him. In her fingers she cradled the jewel woven by his mother, the silver web that had brought them together as children in the South Woods. It seemed a lifetime ago, a world forever lost.
A quiet sob broke on her lips. “I have been such a fool.”
“I was the one who overstepped my bounds. Forgive me, Eolyn. It was not my intention—”
“I am not speaking of these nights, recently passed.” Her hand found his, their fingers intertwined.  “I walked away from you, my love. I turned my back on this gift the Gods had given us, because I was frightened—so very terrified—and of what? Of you? All you ever did was love me. ”
“I was not so perfect in my affection.”
“You were my only Caradoc. I see that now, and it is too late.”

Her words felt small inside the growing void of his soul, though they would have filled him with pleasure just a few years before. He touched her cheek and then drew her into his embrace, inhaling the honey-and-wood scent of her hair. A verse came to mind from his childhood days, a song his mother had sung, and he recited it now as he held Eolyn close. “Caradoc waited for his one true love, withstanding the tides of tempest and sun. Caradoc defied the cruel threats of time, and received his Aithne when her journey was done.”

Eolyn laughed into his chest, a bright sound that invoked images of the sun-flecked woods. She withdrew and looked at him, a mischievous glint in her brown eyes. “That mage had no crown upon his fair head. A King needs an heir before he is dead.”

The improvised verse amused him, but even as he allowed himself a smile the merriment drained from her features.

Her eyes drifted toward Taesara’s room, and she murmured, “I would have born your children with love. Just as she will do, I could have done—that, and so much more.”

Akmael felt something rupture inside, an old wound he now knew would never heal.

“I should leave,” she said, but her lips met his instead.

Lands Ravaged. Dreams destroyed. Demons set loose upon the earth.

War strikes at the heart of women’s magic in Moisehén. Eolyn’s fledgling community of magas is destroyed; its members killed, captured or scattered.

Devastated yet undaunted, Eolyn seeks to escape the occupied province and deliver to King Akmael a weapon that might secure their victory. But even a High Maga cannot survive this enemy alone. Aided by the enigmatic Mage Corey, Eolyn battles the darkest forces of the Underworld, only to discover she is a mere path to the magic that most ignites their hunger.

What can stop this tide of terror and vengeance? The answer lies in Eolyn’s forgotten love, and in its power to engender seeds of renewed hope.

HIGH MAGA is the companion novel to EOLYN, also available from Hadley Rille Books.

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Genre – Epic Fantasy

Rating – PG-13

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Connect with Karin Rita Gastreich on Facebook & Twitter

Blog http://eolynchronicles.blogspot.com

Fenella J. Miller Offers 10 Tips for Becoming a Better Writer @FenellaWriter #WriteTip #AmWriting

10 Tips for Becoming a Better Writer

1. Write what you like to read – if you don't ever read contemporary romantic fiction, then don't attempt to write it yourself.

2. Develop a thick skin – part of being a writer is showing your work to other people and being ready to accept criticism and be prepared to change what you've written. Getting stinking reviews, as well as being rejected by agents and publishers, are just part of the life of a writer.

3. Do something writing related every day – all writers need a life away from the computer. Even when you have a full-time job/bringing up a family/other major commitments in your life, in order to be a successful writer you must write something every day.

4. Be prepared to jettison an entire manuscript however long you've spent writing it. Only the fortunate few are lucky enough to have their first book published – most of us have written half a dozen novels which never see the light of day before they produce anything publishable.

Writing is a craft – like any apprentice you must expect to spend time learning to be the best you can.

5. Take your time and don't be in too much of a hurry to send your book off to be read by an agent/editor or publisher. Put your manuscript to one side for as long as you can bear to – reading the book after a gap of time will often highlight what needs to be tightened or removed from a manuscript.

6. Be determined and be resilient. Writing is not an easy profession; I think you have to have an obsessive personality to make it work. Don't give up after a few rejected novels, keep reading and writing until you succeed.

7. Always gets your manuscript proofread by someone else. However good you are, however professional, it is impossible for a writer to see all the typos and missing words for themselves. It isn't necessary to pay for this service – any educated, literate friend can read through a book and pick up things that you've missed.

8. When you are successful be ready to offer your assistance and advice to those behind you on the ladder.

9. Be professional. What you don't know about formatting your manuscript/writing a letter to the editor or agent/social media or promotion can be gleaned from other writers, writers’ associations and from the Internet. There is no excuse for being unprofessional.

10. Remember one person's opinion is exactly that – there are millions of potential readers who could disagree with a negative review. Have confidence in yourself and your work and write what you want to write. Don't jump on the latest bandwagon – stay true to your unique voice.

World War II brings divided loyalties and tough decisions in this page turning drama from Fenella Miller.

Hannah Austen-Bagshaw’s privileged background can’t stop her falling in love with working-class pilot, Jack, but Hannah has a secret. Torn between her duty and her humanity, she is sheltering a young German pilot knowing she risks being arrested as a traitor. Hannah’s worst fears are realised when Jack finds out what she has done and their love begins to unravel.

Will her betrayal be too much for Jack to forgive?

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Genre – Historical fiction

Rating – PG

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The House by Sebastiana Randone @sebasti29567440 #Historical #Romance

Suddenly, after having walked as little as a few more steps, a large Gothic structure appeared before her. The architecture resembled a fairy tale model. That in this case lamentably, was more like something found in a horror story. Grim and inhospitable, the imposing structure defended by an overgrown garden, spoke of long neglect. Situated amongst the strangulating weeds, mossy statues of curvaceous goddesses whispered secrets of time past. Whilst centrally, an arid birdbath stained turquoise from the decay of time, stood lonely and forgotten. On the whole, one could only deduce human absence by the squalid state of things.

Large ageless trees posed as arboreal guardians, as its silhouetted branches danced upon the cracked time worn walls, to the wind’s song rustling through the leaves. A turret rose defiantly out of the roof of the two storey house. Embellished by carvings of zoomorphic beasts, a cluster of gargoyles and winged beings cast their mischievous gaze upon the onlooker. The visitor could not help but fear that, housed within the decrepit walls of this unwelcoming abode, a dark scene from Grimm brothers, wicked witch and all, awaited ready to pounce.

Venturing forward towards the entrance nevertheless, she pushed against the rusted lacework gate before her. It grunted as it opened reluctantly, the hinge barely able to submit through lack of use. Then, just at that moment, sounds, almost inaudible at first, seemed to emanate from somewhere within the house. Assuming the trees to be the perpetrators, she stood still so as to listen. Strangely, the birds complied by desisting from chatter, as did the forest, whose breathing had stilled.

Now a piano was vaguely audible. This compelled her to knock on the door, that, much to her surprise, opened on its own. Calling out she crept into a vestibule filled with an array of paintings and other exquisite objects. The brightness of the foyer defied the impending gloom of night’s approach. Growing ever louder, the music had a magnetic affect on the young visitor. In a state of increasing curiosity, she entered into a great hallway that seemed never-ending in grandeur. The lack of dust and decay contrasted sharply with the derelict appearance of the house’s exterior. Upon the walls, an eclectic collection of artworks were hanging; seascapes, still lives, and an odd assortment of unusually pleasing abstract water colours, reminiscent of Turner. It was all very warm and welcoming, suggesting the likelihood of tenancy.

“Hello!” she cried. But there was no response, so she continued down the passageway, pausing distractedly for long periods. The ceiling was laden with detailed carvings of cherubim, whose animated eyes followed her every step. These decorative surroundings embodied an aesthetic ideal. That for one obsessed in beauty, as she had long been, this was a veritable feast for the eyes. Leading her to wonder suddenly, whether this was a manifestation of an overactive imagination?

The House is an adult fairy tale rich in mystery and intrigue.

Here is a tale of a woman so absorbed with historical novels that her own reality ceases to offer any hope of romance and beauty.

Until one day this dreamy idealist finds herself in a mysterious forest. How she arrived there is unknown. Soon she encounters a dilapidated house, within whose ancient walls magical rooms that transport to parallel worlds lie in wait.  There she is transmigrated to 18th century England, where our heroine interacts with an odd mix of characters whose dysfunctional lives become immediately apparent.

Her first tribulation involves a nefarious lord, an archetype of the monstrous characters one encounters in fairy tales. The ramification from this confrontation sets the tone for the narrative.

A magic portal finally enables escape from the austere Georgian dwelling. She is then spirited back to the enigmatic house, and a journey to Regency London follows, where a large cast of eccentric identities present themselves.

Late one night, following a long stay in Florence, a young, heart-broken poet arrives. His introduction to the beautiful time traveller offers promise of restoration and love. But there are several more obstacles ahead before her destiny in this curious adventure is made apparent.

In the end an unexpected twist is revealed. But like all good fairy tales, this surprising conclusion is pleasing, even though the means of getting there are dark, and at times sinister.

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Genre - Historical, Fantasy, Romance

Rating - PG-16

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Jennie Goutet Shares Her #WriteTip on How to Write a #Memoir Like a Pro #AmWriting

The difficulty in fiction writing is to come up with a plot that keeps the reader on the edge of his or her seat. In non-fiction writing, the plot is already in place - at least it is in case of a memoir.

So the difficulty in non-fiction writing lies not so much in the organization of it all, but in helping the reader to feel passionately about the story. In the case of memoir, it cannot simply be about telling the story as it happened. That is more of a diary entry than a memoir. The author has to approach the events from a bird’s eye view and guide the reader to a place where they can process the events and make sense of them, and even be moved by what occurred. I followed this process throughout the book, often using the beginning and/or end of each chapter to step out of the story and explore the signification of what was happening.

It helps to get down the facts first. Let me give you a concrete example. The following is the first draft of my opening chapter, that had been edited for mistakes, and which I felt was good enough to send to my beta readers:

My story begins in Avignon, which seems like the perfect place to start. Our family is staying in the Alpilles of Provence this week, and today I walked the broad cobblestone streets towards the plaza of the Palais des Papes for the first time in 23 years.

I kept holding off from taking pictures, confident that I would stumble upon that special square or shop or street that would unleash all my memories. I kept looking around for something to hold onto that would bring me full circle from where I came from to where I am now, but two decades soften the details. Time shrouds in foreignness what was once a significant city to me.

I was 19 and studying abroad my junior year. I walked along the country road from the small town center, which was a suburb outside of Avignon - grateful for once, that I lived so far outside of the city. The sky was such a deep blue and the leaves on the tall trees such a brilliant gold that the sight begged for me to pause and soak it in. The Fall colors last much longer here than they would in Paris or New York, and it was already November with hardly any bare branches on the trees. I stepped off the bus alone, as my roommate had decided to linger a bit in the city on this particular day. On my right side was a small hill with sheep grazing, and to the left of me was a field with a perfectly straight row of tall trees in the middle, dividing the space in two.

This first draft wasn’t . . . bad, but it wasn’t exceptional either. There were a few platitudes and it was missing the magic element that would transport the reader.

Fortunately I was able to profit from a good friend’s wisdom to understand this. This is how it reads now.

I was destined to take root in France. I know that now, even if I didn’t know it back when I had the dream. This path was ordained for me as surely as my brown hair and green eyes, my ample flesh set on an Anglican frame. My path was ordained for me as surely as yours was, even if it’s just a whispered promise from a distant dream. 

Of course it’s only now, mid-journey, that everything starts to form a picture that resembles something—the rich-hued threads of identity woven together, the nearly forgotten events tied in tiny silk knots—all this has transformed itself into a tapestry of a story, almost without my perceiving it. 

My journey begins in Avignon, on the bare fringes of adulthood. It seems fitting, somehow, that my story would start in a place that was both the beginning of a path taken and the source of closure—the healing of a wound that had been gouged out by grief. It wasn’t with any set purpose that I returned to Provence in the time of my sadness, but our family’s visit there collided in sharp contrast—who I had been, with who I was now—the hope with the loss, with the hope again. And it was with this sense of heightened awareness that I walked down the broad cobblestone streets towards the Pope’s palace in Avignon for the first time in twenty-three years. 

I kept holding off from taking pictures, confident that I would stumble upon that special square or shop or street that would unleash all the memories from a period I now regard as a turning point. I kept looking around for something to hold onto that would bring me full circle, but two decades soften the details. Time shrouds in foreignness what was once a significant city to me. 

I was nineteen when I landed on French soil for the first time, shedding everything that was familiar and comfortable in my decision to study abroad junior year. And in the strangeness that had given way to daily habit, I stepped off the city bus in the small town center of Montfavet, and started walking towards the house I was staying in for those few months. I was alone on this particular day, as my roommate, Jamie, had decided to linger a bit in Avignon. The small non-descript square, which held the bus stop, led to the country road away from city traffic and bus fumes. And I was grateful, for once, that I lived so far outside the city.

My surroundings were delightfully foreign to me. The pastures on the right where sheep grazed were quartered into small, green patches of grass by low-lying trees and tall bushes. The scent of burning leaves brought gentle notions of fall to my senses, without accosting my nostrils. A few large stone manors intermingled with more modern houses—the former set back on the hill and the latter bordering the street with thick cement fences. Just ahead on my left was a larger field with a straight row of tall trees, dividing the space in two. Breathing in the crisp air on this deserted road was like breathing in the spirit of adventure.

It’s a bit long for an example, but I wanted you to see what I was talking about. Now the readers know right off the bat that a dream was involved in directing my steps. They know that some tragic event sent me back there, even if my return wasn’t intentionally timed. They get a hint of how I felt as a young student - that I was experiencing culture shock, but that I had a taste for adventure.  This will (hopefully) encourage the reader to continue reading and find out where the adventure led me, how the dream came into play, and what sad event led to my wishing to return and begin telling my story. The desired result is that the reader is kept on the edge of his seat by your life’s events.

I suppose in this way memoir-writing does not differ all that much from fiction!

At seventeen, Jennie Goutet has a dream that she will one day marry a French man and sets off to Avignon in search of him. Though her dream eludes her, she lives boldly—teaching in Asia, studying in Paris, working and traveling for an advertising firm in New York.

When God calls her, she answers reluctantly, and must first come to grips with depression, crippling loss, and addiction before being restored. Serendipity takes her by the hand as she marries her French husband, works with him in a humanitarian effort in East Africa, before settling down in France and building a family.

Told with honesty and strength, A Lady in France is a brave, heart- stopping story of love, grief, faith, depression, sunshine piercing the gray clouds—and hope that stays in your heart long after it’s finished.

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Genre – Memoir

Rating – PG-13

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Website http://aladyinfrance.com

SM Boyce's Lichgates: Book 1 of the Grimoire Saga #GoodReads #Fantasy #BookClub

I’m starting to redefine my idea of possible,” Kara said with a laugh.

“I am curious, Kara,” Garrett said as he leaned against a tree. “What language do you believe you’re speaking?”

“What kind of a question is that?”

“Please, humor me.”

“English.”

Braeden’s heart skipped a beat. She’d said it with such conviction that he wanted to believe her.

“We aren’t speaking English,” Braeden said. “You’re speaking our common language.”

“What—?” She laughed. “I don’t even know what that is!”

Garrett chimed in before Kara could continue. “I know this is confusing, my girl, but listen closely. The first Vagabond often created new vagabonds, and when he did, he would inherently pass on some of his gifts to them. However, it seems that he passed on everything he ever achieved to you because you have his Grimoire. Among other things, you now possess an intuitive understanding of the languages he knew.”

She paused, seeming to grapple with the concept. “That doesn’t even make sense. I mean, why does it sound like English to me? And wouldn’t language evolve over a thousand years?”

“You do have a strange accent.” Braeden chuckled.

Kara glared at him, so he cleared his throat and tried to forget his poorly-timed joke.

“No, nothing much changes here,” he added.

Garrett crossed his arms. “Please entertain me with an experiment. I will need your cooperation, young prince. It will not hurt you, at least not in body.”

How comforting.

Kara shuddered. “This is freaking me out.”

“If you do possess this gift, it will help you to protect yourself,” Garrett said.

She sighed and nodded, so the muse continued.

“The vagabonds were famous for their ability to search another’s mind. If the gift lives on, you will be able to see the moment which has most defined our young prince’s life to this day. It’s rarely a pleasant encounter”—Garrett glanced to Braeden—“but this gift might save your life. Give me your hand.”

She obeyed by shoving her hand at him, which Garrett then pressed against Braeden’s forehead. Her touch tickled his skin, and he noticed for the first time that her eyes were gray.

A spark shocked the space beneath her finger. Ice pooled on his forehead, and his breath chilled in his lungs. All color and light dissolved into a black haze. The muses disappeared into the darkness, as did the forest and the mountain. Kara was the last to dissolve from view, and all was dark.

White and gold wisps wove upward from the ground, twisting and shimmering until they formed the figure of the woman he so sorely missed.

"The writing is flawless. The kingdoms and surrounding landscapes breathtaking. The Grimoire is a piece of imaginative genius that bedazzles from the moment Kara falls into the land of Ourea. - Nikki Jefford, author of the Spellbound Trilogy

Spring 2013 Rankings

#6 Kindle Store | #1 Science Fiction & Fantasy | #1 Epic Fantasy | #1 Sword & Sorcery | #1 Teens

Now an international Amazon bestseller. Fans of The Hobbit, The Lord of the Rings, and Eragon will enjoy this contemporary remix of the classic epic fantasy genre.

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Kara Magari is about to discover a beautiful world full of terrifying things: Ourea.

Kara, a college student still reeling from her mother's recent death, has no idea the hidden world of Ourea even exists until a freak storm traps her in a sunken library. With nothing to do, she opens an ancient book of magic called the Grimoire and unwittingly becomes its master, which means Kara now wields the cursed book's untamed power. Discovered by Ourea's royalty, she becomes an unwilling pawn in a generations-old conflict - a war intensified by her arrival. In this world of chilling creatures and betrayal, Kara shouldn't trust anyone... but she's being hunted and can't survive on her own. She drops her guard when Braeden, a native soldier with a dark secret, vows to keep her safe. And though she doesn't know it, her growing attraction to him may just be her undoing.

For twelve years, Braeden Drakonin has lived a lie. The Grimoire is his one chance at redemption, and it lands in his lap when Kara Magari comes into his life. Though he begins to care for this human girl, there is something he wants more. He wants the Grimoire.

Welcome to Ourea, where only the cunning survive.

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Novels in the Grimoire Saga:

Lichgates (#1)

Treason (#2)

Heritage (#3) - Available Fall 2013

Illusion (#4) - Available Fall 2014

Buy Now @ Amazon & Smashwords

Genre - Fantasy

Rating – PG13

More details about the author

 Connect with SM Boyce on Facebook & Twitter & Pinterest