Bri Clark's Blog, page 22

As promised an adolescent addiction and a nickname revealed.

I come from a town called McEwen TN. A town so small there is literally one hwy going through it and there is only one school...K-12. Anyway back in the 80's when I was like 4 I went into the locally owned Dairy Queen where the now deceased Mr. James made the most amazing little cheeseburgers. Anyway it was a week before Christmas and a couple of hunters had a truck with a deer sprawled across the hood. I saw it and came in sobbing they had killed Rudolph. Ever since I've been known by the owners as Rudolph.



So that's my confession...anyone else have any childhood nicknames or stories?

When I write a novel I do it first and foremost for myself. The first draft is a truly free experience for me. However, there comes a point where you have to have some boundaries in place. I like to think of them as fences that guide the novel on the write path never allowing it to far off the course it needs to be on.









Two areas where boundaries are set for me is my publisher and my genre.

Genre

I read and write paranormal romance. At the moment there are two phrases dominating the genre.

"Vampires and werewolves are the it thing."
"Vampires and werewolves are everywhere people want a change."

Two true but contradictory statements. How do I apply that to my novels. I wrote for myself first and while there are vampires in Familial Witch and Forever Witch they are secondaries to other beings. At one time I considered writing in a werewolf then thought it's not really necessary so I tossed the idea.  While I advise listening and being very aware of your genre in the industry don't let it dictate your muse. If you want to write a classic Dracula legend novel crossed with Teen Wolf be my guest.

Publisher

Astraea Press's motto is Where romance meets virtue. Needless to say we don't do romance where the clothes come off. But with that in mind what if your novel gets a little steamy and better yet what if this is the first time you've submitted to this publisher...what do you do?

Like I have said always for yourself first...then make sure to be willing to rewrite a scene or listen to suggestions your editor offers. Speaking from experience with Astraea most of the time the suggestions make the novel stronger.

I'll share an experience I had with AP. Familial Witch was my first publication with Astraea Press. There was a scene in the novel that I didn't know would be appropriate but I really loved. Here's the scene...
A statuesque woman stretched her elegant body, turning her
face to the sun's rays. The ivory of her complexion was as soft as a
cloud on the breeze. The beams colored her cheeks rose. Chestnut
hair was pulled taut in a braid that ended at the small of her back.
Her flowing white gown was almost see-through with the sunlight
streaming behind it, revealing shapely feminine curves. He smiled
in admiration. Lucien was an immortal, but at times, especially
lately, he was more of a man than he had ever been. He continued
to admire the view that temporarily distracted him from his aching
body.

I made my thoughts known to the editor when I submitted the first draft and she took note. There were only a few minor changes that had big effects. In the end the result was something we both loved and could be proud of.

That's my two sense on boundaries. Have any of you struggled with these?

How I love Six Sentence Sunday. This one comes from my work in progress Forever Witch, the full length novel sequel to my novella Familial Witch. The different beings that have appeared in this novel have surprised even me. Mermaids, Eternals, enchantresses, witches, vampires, goddesses and now a being or messenger of Death. In this scene as Aisleen assumes a ghostlike form because she's battling for her life the being of Death appears to her and offers her a favor.


"I have roamed between realms taking the spirits that die from one world to another for longer than anyone can count. Only magical beings can see me other than those souls. During that time only one has paid me a kindness. Even in her greatest grief, she thought of me and not of herself." Aisleen mused again how it was odd she could feel tears as a spirit. Memories of her sisters deaths assaulted her, for each time she had saw Death it was with their demise. 
"I have waited to pay that kindness. So here I am kind Aisleen, at your service."
 Check out more more Six Sentence Sunday by clicking there and let me know what you think of a novel with a range of characters and beings. 



Familial Witch
Lucien Lemione, the clan leader of the feared and revered Eternals, is faced with the ultimate betrayal. His second in command for two centuries has not only created the most grievous of offenses but also commissioned the creation of liquid silver. When poisoned by this toxin, an immortal suffers a fate much worse than death, frozen in an internal prison. After being wounded when found spying, he hides deep within the eerie woods that encircle the Triad Mountains. Desperate and in pain, he prays to an offended mother goddess for help. Her answer: a woman, but not just any woman. A witch.After losing her entire coven at the hands of the Eternals, Aisleen is the last of her kind. She retreats from the world to Trinity Forest where she is giving the opportunity of a lifetime, or perhaps a test of principles. It's there she discovers the man she heals is the Eternal that wiped out her people. Although she is bound as a healer, she could be creative in her revenge. Aisleen knows who and what Lucien is…but does not speak of it. There can be no future with Lucien for she can only be with a mortal man. Even if she wanted to be with him, can she forgive the man that caused the genocide of her people?Lucien must act quickly for the survival of his clan is at stake. However, Aisleen's ethereal beauty and emerald eyes keep pushing those thoughts far from his mind. Determined to find out what secret she hides, he prolongs his time with her. When his people need him most what will he choose…duty, desire, or will he make his own fate?You can choose love but you can't choose destiny.

You know what I post like three reviews on Monday. This was a byproduct of the great calendar crash debacle of 2011. So as far as features go check out those three and then come back tomorrow for the review of Hunter's Prey. Bri Clark is out Peace

















Airel Review








A New Prospect Review

The Hypnotist Review

I know y'all wanted something more than this...or perhaps this is a relief. I'll ignore that. Working on a couple of different projects to reveal on the blog soon. Super excited and desperately hoping to keep it on the DL for now. More to come soon....very soon.

Character Development Sheet

About The HypnotistAn FBI agent, tormented by a death he wasn't able to prevent, a crime he's never been able to solve and a love he's never forgotten, discovers that his true conflict resides not in his past, but in a…Past Life.
Haunted by a twenty-year old murder of a beautiful young painter, Lucian Glass keeps his demons at bay through his fascinating work as a Special Agent with the FBI's Art Crime Team. Currently investigating a crazed art collector who has begun destroying prized masterworks, Glass is thrust into a bizarre hostage negotiation that takes him undercover at the Phoenix Foundation—dedicated to the science of past life study—where, in order to maintain his cover, he agrees to submit to the treatment of a hypnotist.
Under hypnosis, Glass travels from ancient Greece to 19th century Persia, while the case takes him from New York to Paris and the movie capital of world. These journeys will change his very understanding of reality, lead him to question his own sanity and land him at the center of perhaps the most audacious art heist in history: the theft of a 1,500 year old sculpture from the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
International bestselling author M. J. Rose's The Hynpotist is her most mesmerizing novel yet. An adventure, a love story, a clash of cultures, a spiritual quest, it is above all a thrilling capstone to her unique Reincarnation novels, The Reincarnationist and The Memorist.


Excerpt


"Were I called on to define, very briefly, the term Art, I should call it the reproduction of what the Senses perceive in Nature through the veil of the soul."
—Edgar Allan Poe
Twenty Years Ago
Time played tricks on him whenever he stood in front of the easel. Hypnotized by the rhythm of the brush on the canvas, by one color merging into another, the two shades creating a third, the third melting into a fourth, he was lulled into a state of single-minded consciousness focused only on the image emerging. Immersed in the act of painting, he forgot obligations, missed classes, didn't remember to eat or to drink or look at the clock. This was why, at 5:25 that Friday evening, Lucian Glass was rushing down the urine-stinking steps to the gloomy subway platform when he should have already been uptown where Solange Jacobs was waiting for him at her father's framing gallery. Together, they planned to walk over to an exhibit a block away, at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
When he reached the store, the shade was drawn and the Closed sign faced out, but the front door wasn't locked. Inside, none of the lamps were lit, but there was enough ambient twilight coming through the windows for him to see that Solange wasn't there, only dozens and dozens of empty frames, encasing nothing but pale yellow walls, crowded shoulder-to-shoulder, waiting to be filled like lost souls looking for mates.
As he hurried toward the workroom in the back, the commingled smells of glue and sawdust grew stronger and, except for his own voice calling out, the silence louder.
"Solange?"
Stopping on the threshold, he looked around but saw only more empty frames.Where was she? And why was she here alone? Lucian was walking toward the worktable, wondering if there was another room back there, when he saw her. Solange was sprawled on the floor, thrown against a large, ornate frame as if she were its masterpiece, her blood splattered on its broken gold arms, a still life in terror. There were cuts on her face and hands and more blood pooled beneath her.
Kneeling, he touched her shoulder. "Solange?"
Her eyes stayed closed but she offered a ghost of a smile.
While he was thinking of what to do first—help her or call 911—she opened her eyes and lifted her hand to her cheek. Her fingertips came away red with blood.
"Cut?" she asked, as if she had no idea what had happened.
He nodded.
"Promise," she whispered, "you won't paint me like this…" Solange had a crescent-shaped scar on her forehead and was forever making sure her bangs covered it. Then, catching herself, she'd laugh at her vanity. That laugh now came out as a moan.
When her eyes fluttered closed, Lucian put his head on her chest. He couldn't hear a heartbeat. Putting his mouth over hers, he attempted resuscitation, frantically mimicking what he'd seen people do in movies, not sure he was doing it right.
He thought he saw her hand move and had a moment of elation that she was going to be all right before realizing it was only his reflection moving in the frame. His head back on her chest, he listened but heard nothing. As he lay there, Solange's blood seeping out of her wound, soaking his hair and shirt, he felt a short, fierce burst of wind.
Lucian was tall but thin… just a skinny kid studying to be a painter. He didn't know how to defend himself, didn't know how to deflect the knife that came down, ripping through his shirt and flesh and muscle. Again. And then again. So many times that finally he wasn't feeling the pain; he was the pain, had become the agony. Making an effort to stay focused, as if somehow that would matter, he tried to memorize all the colors of the scene around him: his attacker's shirtsleeve was ochre, Solange's skin was titanium white… he was drifting…
There were voices next, very far-off and indistinct. Lucian tried to grasp what they were saying.
"…extensive blood loss…"
"…multiple stab wounds…"
He was traveling away from the words. Or were they traveling away from him? Were the people leaving him alone here? Didn't they realize he was hurt? No, they weren't leaving him… they were lifting him. Moving him. He felt cool air on his face. Heard traffic.
Their voices were becoming more indistinct.
"…can't get a pulse…"
"We're losing him…quick, quick. We're losing him…"
The distance between where he was and where they were increased with every second. The words were just faint whispers now, as soft as a wisp of Solange's hair.
"Too late…he's gone."
The last thing he heard was one paramedic telling the other the time was 6:59 p.m. A silence entered Lucian, filling him up and giving him, at last, respite from the pain.
The Present
The building on Fortieth Street and Third Avenue was a series of cantilevered glass boxes. Upstairs on the sixteenth floor, in an opulent office inconsistent with the modern structure, three men were on a conference call with a fourth via a secure phone line. It was an unnecessary precaution. When the mission of Iran to the UN had rented this space, they'd torn down the walls so they could properly insulate against long-range distance microphones. But one could never be too cautious, especially on foreign soil.
A fog of smoke hung over the windowless conference room table and the odor of heavy tobacco overwhelmed Ali Samimi. He hated the stink of the Cuban cigars but he wasn't in charge here and couldn't complain. He coughed. Coughed again. It was so like his boss to blow the smoke in his direction, despite knowing he was sensitive to it. Farid Taghinia was one mean motherfucking son of a bitch. Samimi stifled the smile that just thinking the American curse words brought to his lips.
"We have no trouble working with the British, the French or the Austrians. Only with the Americans do complications and conflict continue to arise. Haven't I been generous in offering to allow the museum to keep the sculpture for the opening of their new wing? Haven't they seen the documents we provided proving the sculpture was stolen? Why are they still hesitating?" Even though his voice was traveling six thousand miles, from Tehran to Manhattan, Hicham Nassir's puzzlement was perceptible.
"Because I haven't shown them the documents," said Vartan Reza, a craggy-faced, Iranian-born American lawyer who specialized in cultural heritage cases. It had been almost two years since the mission had hired Reza to orchestrate the return of a piece of sculpture currently owned by the Metropolitan Museum of Art on the basis that it had been illegally taken out of Iran over a hundred years before. The lawyer had hesitated in accepting the case until Taghinia had made it clear that a generous fee would not be the lawyer's only recompense. The members of Reza's family still living in Tehran would be well provided for, too.
If Samimi had respected Taghinia at all, he would have been impressed by his boss's cunning—offering a generous bonus wrapped around a threat. Instead it made him all the more nervous about watching his own back.
"Didn't show them the papers? Why is that?" demanded Taghinia from the opposite end of the table as he put the Cuban up to his mouth and inhaled again.
"I have some questions about their authenticity," Reza explained. "And I don't want to turn anything over to the museum's attorneys that might prove embarrassing and hurt our case."
Taghinia picked a piece of tobacco off his thick lips, blinked his lizard-brown eyes and started tapping his foot on the carpet. "Questions?" Tap, tap. "Questions at this point are not a good thing, Mr. Reza."Tap, tap. "Our government is losing patience."
"Regardless, it's not in your best interest to have me proceed rashly."
Taghinia glared at Samimi as if this was somehow the underling's fault. The only real civility and cooperation between Iran and America was in the cultural arena, and if this issue dragged on and became an international incident it wouldn't help either country's already strained diplomatic efforts.
"Were you aware of this?" he asked.
"I don't care if Samimi knew about it or not. I want to know what's wrong with the documents." Nassir's voice drew everyone's attention back to the squawk box in the middle of the highly polished ebony table.
"I don't believe they're authentic," Reza said.
"What?" Taghinia's face flushed with an emotion that read as outrage but that Samimi suspected was guilt.
"That's impossible," said Nassir. "Reza, do you understand? That's impossible."
Samimi had never heard the minister of culture so upset. Nassir had studied art history at Oxford and had published two books on Islamic art that had each been translated into more than twenty languages. Nassir had once said that he believed every piece in Iran's museum was a member of his family and it was up to him to safeguard them all.
"The partage agreement that details the fate of the objects found at the Susa excavations is dated 1885," Reza said.
"Yes?" Nassir asked.
"The paper it's written on was manufactured in 1910," Reza explained.
"Impossible."
"I'm afraid not. I've had two experts test it."
"But there are corroborating records," the minister argued.
"None that mention this piece by name or description, Mr. Nassir. For the past eighteen months, we've been operating on the assumption that these papers were authentic. We've built our whole case on them. This is a serious setback."
At the heart of Iran's request was an eight-foot-tall chryselephantine statue of the Greek god Hypnos, the god of sleep, which neither Samimi nor anyone else on the phone call had ever seen. According to art historians, some of the best chryselephantine sculpture came from the city of Delphi, which had been looted by the Phokians in the mid-fourth century BC…

Review

Wow my TBR just grew by two. After reading this book I must read the two prior in the series. While as a stand alone it more than delivers but to be able to enjoy two other of these masterpieces only adds to the joy I had from this one. Lucien is a character to connect with and love. Even when he thought he was going insane I felt the fear that created in him, the doubts he had. All the elements of a cross genre novel...which means it's awesome on so many levels. History, mystery, romance, action, adventure, paranormal all mesh together for one fabulous and life questioning read.

Blurb

All Airel ever wanted to be was normal, to disappear into the crowd. But bloodlines can produce surprises, like sudden mysterious illness. Then there's Michael Alexander, the new guy in school, who is impossibly gorgeous…and captivated by her. Somewhere in the back of her mind she can hear the sound of pages turning, and another, older story being written. It is the story of an ancient family, of  great warriors, of the Sword of Light, and the struggle against an evil so terrible, so far-reaching, that it threatens everything she hopes for even now. Airel knew change would be inevitable as life went on. But can she hold on when murder and darkness begin to close in and take away everything she loves? Will she have what it takes when the truth is finally revealed?




Excert 


Chapter I
Boise, Idaho. Present day.
I woke with that horrid feeling in the pit of my stomach—again. I looked at the clock to see that it was time to drag my sorry butt out of bed. School was the last place I wanted to be today and with the weather starting to get nice again, I dreaded being cooped up in classes all day.
My feet hit the carpet and I sat on the edge of the bed looking at nothing in particular. My body was refusing to respond and it wanted nothing to do with this morning business. Come on Airel, no time to be dragging. I stood up and looked at myself in the mirror that hung on the wall next to the bathroom door. Its rounded corners and unflinching honesty made me wonder if my idea of who I was and what I looked like actually lined up with the truth.
My dark brown hair had just a touch of curl and fell just below my shoulders in crazy tangles. I had thought a thousand times about coloring it—I know, who doesn't nowadays—but never could bring myself to take that final leap. I was weird about some things and that was one of them. Not that I was against hair coloring or thought anyone who did it was vain or anything. I just liked to know that it was me all the way down to the core.
Dark circles surrounded my boring brown eyes. I had always wanted blue eyes, but oh well. I rubbed at them as if doing that would help me wake up faster. I smiled at my reflection and looked at how my face seemed to light up, then laughed aloud at how ridiculous I must seem to anyone who might be watching. My imaginary fan club…
Whatever! I have a great smile and if I have to use it to wake myself up, so be it!
"Airel! Are you up? School is in ten minutes and you need to eat something. If you keep skipping breakfast then you…" Her words trailed off in a mom-ish rant on the importance of the first meal of the day.
My mom was just that—a mom. She and Dad had a great relationship, which was rare in the world today, what with divorce and deadbeat dads—and deadbeat moms for that matter—running rampant. I was glad at least I could depend on one thing in my life, or so I hoped.
I yelled back, I'm not hungry Mom! Then pulled on my favorite pair of True Religion jeans and a dark blue shirt that I picked up yesterday at the mall. I ran my hand through my hair, pulled half of it back and clamped it down with a funky clip I bought at a small boutique downtown. I slapped on half of my make-up figuring I could finish with eyeliner and mascara in the parking lot before class.
As I pulled back the sheer curtain, looking past the glass and into the front yard, I was glad to see the sun would be making an appearance…well, for today anyway. Around here the weather was about as reliable as the people who reported it. I packed my backpack with the necessary books, make-up, and extra clothes, just in case we had a running day in gym. Once a week we were forced to run and I ended up sweaty and gross. Ten minutes from the time my feet hit the floor I was in my trusty Honda and on my way to school…or as I like to call it…Hell!
I didn't really think it was hell, but it had its hell-like days. I was running a little late, even with my record time getting out of the house, and to top it off, I had a wicked craving for a coconut latte.
I looked at the time and decided to just go ahead and commit to my coffee obsession. After all, it was only high school and I had priorities. I pulled into Moxie Java—I was a diehard fan. The gunko, —yep, gunko is not a 'real' word, but if I say it, then that makes it real in my world— they served at Starbucks would peel the paint off the walls. I liked good coffee—not burnt gunko.
My car squealed to a stop outside the coffee shop, reminding me once again that I needed to have Dad do the brakes. I should have asked him do it last weekend, but it rained the entire weekend, leaving me stranded at home doing homework. To my dismay, the place was packed. Looks like 'late' just turned to 'criminally late'.

I didn't dare look at the time but surprisingly, the line seemed to move rather quickly. With latte in hand, I turned doing the hair flip thing. It was supposed to look like I was a pro at the order-pay-and-I'm-out move, but as I turned toward the door as I turned toward the door someone walked through the door and everything in my world came to a screeching halt.
He was a tall boy—man, with spiky, blond hair. As he walked in, I felt my heart jump. It was like destiny. I felt something begin as he filled the doorway. It was like he and I were made for that moment.
He was so perfect and beautiful. He was so perfect and beautifully manly. I could feel my face flush and my heart pound within my chest.
He walked past me as if I didn't exist and got in line. All at once, I was moving—or falling-who knows. All I know is that I rammed into some poor old guy and proceeded to dump my precious coconut latte all over his coat. "Oh. I'm so sorry. I, uh…"
The short bent-over man looked up at me with amusement and confusion as I pawed clumsily at his wet coat, looking around for some napkins. I felt my heart racing even faster as a hand reached over my shoulder with about ten white napkins. I turned my face and followed the hand up the arm and at the other end of that glorious arm was—him.
The very guy who turned me into a puddle of mush and a fumbling idiot. He smiled and I felt my face grow hot. "Let me…" He said, as he handed the old man the stack of napkins. I could feel my cheeks flush. I wanted to die and I just stood there like a moron with my mouth hanging open.
The old man took the napkins and cleaned up most of the mess. He insisted that it was no big deal. "Happens to the best of us!" he said. He was so nice and looking back on the terrible situation, I wonder who ran into who.
My legs were shaking now and I was freezing. I looked around, then down at my feet where this ever-so-gorgeous-guy was wiping up the spilled coffee. Then he handed me my empty cup.
"Thank-you! I, um…" There they were. My first words to him—oh, wow… what a line of brilliance. What words to utter in this moment. I stood holding my empty cup and he rose and nodded with a smile. Before I knew it, he was gone. Poof! Whoosh! Just gone. I somehow ended up back in my car and on my way to hell, and yes—today it was just about guaranteed to be hell. Argh!
I pulled out my phone and saw that I was not late after all. I was actually two minutes early. How did that happen? Weird. I considered the coffee splatters on my shoes and dismissed the idea that the coffee shop was all some kind of hallucination. I pulled my little Civic into the closest parking space and shook my head. What was that? It was like he had this aura or something that reached into my very soul. I didn't believe in love at first sight. Well, not necessarily. But this morning was making me think twice about a few things.
His eyes, so blue, and the way he looked at me! It was as if he knew me or knew what I was thinking—how I was feeling.
I ran my fingers through my hair, interlocked them together, and pressed my thumbs into my temples. I didn't get headaches often but I could feel one coming on.
Two boys that I never talked to… and never would… walked by, staring. Ugh. Some boys are just born clueless. I glanced at myself in the rear view mirror one last time, smoothed my hair, and took a moment—since I had one—to finish my eye makeup. I guess I do feel pretty today. Just clumsy, that's all.
I headed toward the main building of my school. Lip-gloss could be done on the way… if I didn't trip trying to walk and do something else at the same time.
The smell of golden leaves and morning dew filled the air and I closed my eyes and took in the sweet fragrance as I walked. I loved fall. The colors, the smells, the fresh rain in the morning made me want to break out into song. Lucky for anyone within earshot I kept my composure. No one wanted to hear my melodious voice. Just the idea of cooler weather made me forget my embarrassing morning. I was glad that I would never see that boy again.
I was not what some might call a beautiful girl but I could hold my own if the need arose. The invention of make-up was a great thing, and I was an expert in the use of it. My skin was pale. I guess a nice way to say it would be that my complexion was fair. I had a few too many freckles, though, not to mention the fact that I was short. Not like, "Wow, dude! Check out the circus freak!" But I was just short enough that I got teased relentlessly. I felt self-conscious, but would I ever admit to that? "Cheeya!" I said, out loud, and then checked to see if anyone had heard. I would never admit to it. The teasing would only get worse if I did.
My frame was petite and I had delicate features. On a bad day I would break the hundred-pound mark, so that was at least something. I might not be the hottest girl in school, but I never had to worry about my weight.
I was a little smarter than I let on. I didn't want to be the smartest kid in school. That was never good. The last thing I needed was to be labeled as a geek, even though I did adore a good book, and had my quirks. I stood out when I wanted to stand out but blended in most of the time.
I liked to learn and I was a good student for the most part. I got A's and every now and then a B. None of my friends were interested in their grades because they were all too interested in their boyfriends or girlfriends and who was doing what with who, or who broke-up with who… Blah, blah, blah!
The walk from my car to my locker helped to clear my head. The walk and fresh air made me feel better about my day.
I had a few friends that I hung with but for the most part I used them like camouflage. I flew under the radar. I mean, I liked my friends, but only one or two of them were real. Everybody knows this except for dumb guys who can't even buy a clue. Sometimes I watched all the popular girls, wondering if they actually had brains or if they just ran on batteries, plugging in at night to recharge their ever-so-perfect personalities. No bitterness here!
I made it to class without incident. "Nice shirt." Kim, my best friend and shopping diva, gave me a mock glare and sat down next to me. "So. You see the new guy yet?" She looked around and lowered her voice as if it was a crime to be interested in someone new to our little school.
"Ah… no. And what does it matter? It's not like he's going to talk to us." I rolled my eyes. I opened up my history book and pretended to read, hoping Kim would drop the subject, but I knew better.
Kim was always so energetic. Most people had good days, bad days, and most people's moods could go from hot to cold… but not Kim. She was full speed ahead, no on—off switch. I loved her for it! Besides, she helped to keep me looking on the bright side of life.
"Come on girl, when he sees you he'll fall madly in love and beg you for your hand in marriage!" She giggled and then quieted down as Mr. Brashear started the class. I didn't respond and Kim didn't seem to notice. She pretended to read her history book too and began texting whoever she was always texting.
Kim had friends at other schools and they literally texted non-stop. I kicked her leg and she grunted, dropping her phone. It clattered on her desk and I smiled. She shot me a death stare and threatened me under her breath.
I zoned out like I did every time the word history came up. After all, this class was all about what had already been done before. When it was all said and done I couldn't tell you what the teacher had even said.
But there is one thing I will never forget as long as I live. The person who changed my world forever…


Review 

A book that not only crosses from Boise ID to a land never known, but a novel that doesn't cross genre's but takes a part, the best part of several and meshes them together in a tapestry of imagination and creativity. Only solidified by the depth and layers of the characters within it. That novel is known as Airel.

Airel is the latest YA novel that pushes the boundaries of what "the powers that be" think is appropriate in length and depth for teens today. World building similar to YA original author Tamora Pierce but at 4x's the length Airel never lets go once you start. Characters that are not only relatable but feelable (yes I made that up I'm an author I can.) connect enabling you to not just read the story but ride the pages.
However, like all rides there is an ending. But I leave you with dear reader there is a sequel.

About A New ProspectSam Jenkins never thought about being a fish out of water during the twenty years he spent solving crimes in New York. But things change, and after retiring to Tennessee, he gets that feeling. Jenkins becomes a cop again and is thrown headlong into a murder investigation and a steaming kettle of fish, down-home style.
The victim, Cecil Lovejoy, couldn't have deserved it more. His death was the inexorable result of years misspent and appears to be no great loss to anyone, except the prime suspect is Sam's personal friend.
Jenkins' abilities are attacked when Lovejoy's influential widow urges politicians to reassign the case to state investigators.
Feeling like "a pork chop at a bar mitzvah" in his new workplace, Sam suspects something isn't kosher when the family tries incessantly to force him out of the picture.
In true Jenkins style, Sam turns common police practice on its ear to insure an innocent man doesn't falls prey to an imperfect system and the guilty party receives appropriate justice.
A NEW PROSPECT takes the reader through a New South resolutely clinging to its past and traditional way of keeping family business strictly within the family.
Latest News!  A New Prospect was named best mystery of the year at the 2011 Next Generation Independent Publisher's Book Awards!  The link to the published results is www.indiebookawards.com/2011_winners_and_finalists.php.


Review 

If you like a laugh out loud, feel good, murder mystery then this book is for you. Characters are always my weakness and delight. Sam Jenkins is a blend of Yankee charm with a sprinkling of cowboy honor laced with those old detective novels. The story moved well and at times I was stunned at the humor. Being a native of Tennessee I was impressed with the description and language Mr. Zurl used. However, at times the twang was overused. All in all a great read.

It's the time again, naps, church, lunch, pj's and dresses, you say! NO! It's Six Sentence Sunday Baby!!!

Here's six from my current WIP, Forever Witch. The sequel to my novella Familial Witch. I'm excited because Forever Witch will be a full novel. Now on to my six. In this one you will be introduced to Killian Kincaid, a vampire clan leader, an immortals sworn enemy and Aisleen's best friend. Is it a love triangle? Who likes love triangles?


"Aisleen theorized that my instinct and intelligence warred each other when it came to eating. While I need blood to survive, I don't have to have a lot or human blood for that matter. If she could find a way to weaken my instinct enough to allow my rational mind to overcome it I would be able to control that inner beast inside me."Now holding both Killian's forearms Lucian almost leapt for joy. "That's it."                                                            "What's it?" Killian asked.                                                             "Get the tonic. I'll explain in minute." 
Do you want to know what's going on in this scene? Wonder what the tonic is? Calling me names such as tease? *giggle* Don't forget to get more teases and appetizers at Six Sentence Sunday.