Meg Collett's Blog, page 11

Jenn Lyons lives in Atlanta, Georgia with her husband, three cats and a nearly infinite number of opinions on anything from feminism to the correct way to make a martini. She writes science-fiction, fantasy and urban fantasy. Her debut novel is Blood Chimera, and she is writing the follow-up, Blood Sin.

Meet Jenn! She is this week’s profiled author, and, in case you haven’t heard, Jenn just signed a deal with World Weaver Press, which you can read about here. That’s pretty stinkin’ awesome!

Luckily, I got Jenn to answer a few questions before she gets all famous and busy.

How did you get your start in writing?

Jenn: I tried to write my first novel when I was twelve. My neighbor had given me an Apple IIc and I was very impressed that it could hold an entire book in memory. An ENTIRE book! Just think of the possibilities!

I didn’t do a very good job of writing the book, but again: I was twelve.

I had no clue what an Apple IIc was, so I Googled. Here it is:

Say whaaa?!? Is that a laptop? I had no clue.

How long have you been writing?

Jenn: Since the dinosaurs roamed the earth. No, seriously, I started writing with the intention to actually see the work published when I was 27 years old, which you’ll note, is not a direct answer. This was back in the old days when you wrote a book, sent off a big ream of typed paper to publishing houses and literary agents, crossed your fingers and lit candles in front of an altar, preferably while sacrificing a chicken. Odds were good you would never heard back from them too, not even a rejection letter. One agent did write me back, and I later learned that she was a con artist who made her business selling editing services rather than manuscripts. Fortunately I was too poor to be able to afford editing services, legitimate or otherwise, so that manuscript and several others were shelved. The whole experience was deeply traumatic and it was well over a decade before I seriously considered trying again.

What was your inspiration for “Blood Chimera?”

Jenn: I’ve always loved vampire stories. I knew I wanted to write one, but I wasn’t quite sure what sort of vampire I wanted. While I was doing my research, I realized just how modern our current idea of a vampire is. A vampire isn’t old-fashioned at all. The word itself only goes back about a thousand years in any documentable form and the earliest version of the word also meant witch or werewolf. The word meant ‘monster’ basically. It was a vague term. So I started thinking: okay, so what if these definitions aren’t mutually exclusive? What circumstances might make someone think a werewolf is a vampire is a witch? I think that was the core idea that sparked everything else.

What has the road to publication been like for you? Could you maybe highlight the highs and lows for me?

Jenn: Thank goodness for the modern age. I finished Blood Chimera this summer and I have a publishing contract sitting in my email inbox. That kind of quick movement would have been unfathomable even ten years ago. Now we have Twitter and Facebook and email — when I submit a query to an agent or editor, I hear back from them, even if what I hear is a rejection. A slow response is a month — not so long ago, a slow response was two years. That’s extraordinary. That’s very, very positive and powerful.

Oddly, I’ve had a harder time finding an agent than a publisher. I think that a lot of publishers, particularly the small indie presses, are willing to take a little more risk when it comes to putting a new author out there. I don’t have any numbers to back this up, but I suspect agents have become very discriminating as a survival trait — their careers seem to be shifting to curation, and more and more I’m seeing agents demand only what they personally think is superlative, because their reputation is their career. That’s not a bad thing, but it does mean finding that perfect agent is akin to porcupines mating…blindfolded…on the edge of a volcano. It’s slow, careful, tricky business.

*Cough* That was some image, Jenn. Thanks for that.

I had a random question for Jenn. I noticed via my stalking that she already had a cover for “Blood Chimera” and she (at the time) was pursuing traditionally publishing. I thought it would be interesting for readers to know if it’s helpful to have a cover in this digital, visual age while querying books to agents or publishers.

You can see her cover here. I totally dig it.

Jenn: Thank you! I love the cover too. I really do. But…that cover was no help at all, in terms of selling my manuscript. None. And I would not recommend any writer try to submit art with their manuscript. No, definitely don’t do that. Neither publisher saw that art before making their offers, and I know for a fact that the cover will not be used when Blood Chimera is published, which makes my proof copy of the book a rare collectible. That said, it was so very helpful for me to create the cover as a learning experience. For one thing, I have a much greater appreciation for how insanely difficult it is to create a nice book cover. For another, I saw just how many authors take shortcuts with their book cover, which is effectively self-sabotage. If I had self-published the book? It would have been indispensable for marketing.

It won’t surprise me at all if we see more and more attention being paid to covers, both in traditional and self-published routes, as publishers and individuals strive to prove their work is more professional and polished than the other guy’s. The book industry is saturated, so it only makes sense to make sure your first marketing opportunity — the cover — is fantastic.

Who is your support system?

Jenn: My husband Michael. I couldn’t do this without him. He’s also a writer, so he understands my needs, but he also edits for me, gives me feedback, and he’s my sanity check. I can always count on him to tell me if there are seriously logic or plot problems. Nothing’s worse than writing most of a book before you realize the hero could have undone all the villain’s plans with a phone call in chapter 2.

I see you have a full-time job (boo! me too) along with your writing. How do you balance everything? This is something I personally always struggle with.

Jenn: You’re not going to like this, but as far as I’ve been able to tell, you don’t balance it. Who can? Nobody balances all the things they want to do with the time they have to do it in, and that’s doubly true for those of us with full time jobs. I can’t even imagine how hard it is for writers with full time jobs and children. The mind boggles.

Let me put this in context. I spent a decade noodling around with writing on the side, when I was inspired, when I ‘felt’ like it, when the muse came to call and when I had enough time in between all the other things I was trying to cram into my life. I didn’t finish anything. I was that person perpetually ‘writing a novel.’ We all know that person, right? They’re going to finish that book someday. I had three books I was going to finish someday. I suppose I was waiting for the stars to be in alignment, or for the winning lottery ticket so I could settle on my own island. I had a hundred excuses. They were all really good excuses, and they all meant I never finished what I started.

This year I realized the secret to writing is…writing. I know that sounds trite, but it’s like this: if you want to be a writer, putting words down on the page has to be the default, not the exception. Writers write. If playing the latest video game or finishing that knitting project is more important than writing, nothing will miraculously appear on that blank page while you were gone.

So I changed my priorities.

When I did that, I finished two novels within months, not years. It was magic. I’m on track to have a third novel’s first draft finished by Thanksgiving.

Is there one moment of support/kindness shared to you by another author that will forever stand out to you in your career?

Jenn: First I’ll give shout outs to Michael Shean and Jennifer Povey, two writers who have just been incredibly supportive and there for me through the entire process. Mad props to both of them being endless wells of awesome.

But more than that, I’m going to go waaaay back to a Comic Con convention I attended years back, where I approached Elizabeth Bear. I started to ask her all kinds of questions about finding a publisher and what I could do and she interrupted me, because I’d mentioned I hadn’t actually finished the book.

“Finish the book. Do that first. Nothing else matters.”

I recall I was irritated with her. Easy for her to say that! Of course, she was right: finishing that book was everything. Her advice may not have been easy for me to hear, but it was spot on.

What words of advice would you tell another aspiring writer who is struggling with their work?

Jenn: I think Herbert said it best: Fear is the mind killer. There’s so many things about this craft that are terrifying. If you finish the work, you’ll have to show it to someone, and if you show it to someone, they might not like it, and if they don’t like it, they might say terrible things about you. People might be cruel, saying you never should have bothered and are wasting everyone’s time. Writing is at its heart risky, scary business. We put our souls on display and hope nobody goes for the easy shot, and of course, someone always does. It’s so easy to sabotage our achievements as a way of shielding ourselves from the risk.

So that’s my advice: be fearless. Keep writing. Write as much as you can, as often as you can. Write to defy the little goblin in your own head that wants to tear you down. Write in spite of everyone out there that wants to silence your voice, or worse, doesn’t seem to think you even deserve to have a voice. Write for yourself, fearlessly. Write with the knowledge it doesn’t need to be perfect: it just has to get on the page.

And then, you know, editing. Lots and lots of editing.

Oh, and get yourself on Twitter, because it’s seriously crazy how supportive and wonderful the Twitter community is for writers. Every publisher who has said yes to me was a publisher I found via Twitter. Pure gold.

That is absolutely wonderful advice, I believe. I hope you all reading this post take Jenn’s message to heart. Be fearless.

Because all those who say you can’t or you shouldn’t, well, they can suck it.

My Spanktacular Announcement

By, Mina Vaughn

Hey everyone!  I’ve been sitting on this news for a while now, just nerding out by myself, all stoked and wanting to share with you.

Now I’m FINALLY able to give you the deliciously sordid details…

…I have two new books coming out with Simon & Schuster!

…and How to Discipline Your Vampire is now the first book in the Domme-nation series!

Here’s the scoop:

HOW TO REPRIMAND YOUR ROCK STAR is an NA erotic romance about a women’s college basketball phenom who ropes in a mischievous rocker.

You guys, Keaton Lowe of Trickster City is going to be your new favorite rocker hunk.  He’s sexy, sweet and surprisingly submissive.  And Thea’s a heroine everyone can root for—grounded, athletic, smart and knows just what she wants.

How to Reprimand Your Rock Star is coming out Summer 2014.

But that’s not all!

HOW TO PUNISH YOUR PLAYBOY is about a pin-up model and the naughty restaurateur she manages to tame. You’ll love watching her teach this spoiled playboy a lesson.

Trust me, ladies, when I say you’re going to want Aston Delano to prepare all your tasty delights.  He’s got sensitive taste buds and knows how to fork.  As for Veronika Kane, this pin-up’s got more secrets than how to dominate: she’s also pretty handy with casting spells.

How to Punish Your Playboy comes out Spring 2015.

Anyway, I hope you’re as excited as I am!  While they aren’t direct sequels to How to Discipline Your Vampire, they all go together with the theme of superbly dominant women and the delicious men who love them.

Thanks and spanks!

-Mina

@minavaughn

www.minavaughn.com

Buy How to Discipline Your Vampire now!

I was losing my mind.

Somewhere along the way – I don’t remember where – I pulled a string, and my unraveling began. I began having thoughts – unholy thoughts. Emotions, impure and unwelcome, welled inside me. I was angry. I was bitter. I hated.

Like a pick ax stabbed into a thin sheet of ice, a fatal fissure ominously creaked and groaned its cracking path down the frozen lake of my soul, splitting it into two entirely different parts. One part was the angel I had been, Michaela’s friend, and a holy keeper of Heaven. The other part of my soul was tainted into a smudgy disgrace. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t pull my soul back together.

I tried to talk about my conflicting feelings with Michaela, but she was always so perfect, so honorable that the words of my soul’s dissolve never came. I was too proud to let the words be spoken. But by then, when I tried to tell her, there were just too many parts of me missing, essential pieces that made me a Holy Angel. It was just too hard to reinvent those lacking parts. Especially when it was so easy to just pick a side – good or bad.

From the center of my inner frozen lake, I heard the two parts of my soul calling to me, each begging me to choose. They rattled against the bars of my bones, pulled at my skin, forcing me to pay attention. That was all I felt – a deafening clatter deep down inside of me.

This went on for ages, this indecision. I barely functioned. I rarely spoke. I hardly made it through the days.

Everyone noticed. But I didn’t hear the worried discussions or see the pressing stares sent in my direction. I stood on the fringes, too preoccupied with my internal conflict to even pretend to partake in my outside life. I felt the other angels’ frosty stares and wintry words on my chilled skin. It all added to my delirium.

I confused the other angels. I was different, even from the beginning. They didn’t want to go so far as to call me a freak, but certainly I was an anomaly.

The worst part of all was that I knew I had been created this way. I was made with a flaw, which had allowed these doubts and hateful thoughts in my mind. It might have been Michaela who was created with this deficiency. By some cruel twist of fate, I was the one chosen to crack.

When the angels felt me pull further within myself, they didn’t think much of it. They sensed my aloofness and wrote it off because I was weird. But then they sensed my emotions, and they began to suspect.

The mistrust between the angels, brewed by the thoughts in my head that I couldn’t keep hidden anymore, caused a severe disconnect. The Holy Angels began to fall apart. Michaela and the others flailed about to salvage their precious order. I sensed the uncertainty and distress they felt. Yet, I did not care, because they did not understand me.

Doubts never filled their minds. Good never had to fight against darkness for prominence in their souls. They never had to choose between two evils that begged for residence in their bodies. Their hearts had never turned to boiling black tar.

I felt things that should never be felt in a place like this, in Heaven.

Standing among my so very devout, devoted, and demure Brothers and Sisters milling around me, frantically searching to re-establish themselves, I felt all these emotions with the strongest surge.

Malevolence.

Fury.

Malice.

Wickedness.

Hatred.

Contempt.

Condescension.

Desperation.

But most of all, I felt a deadening utter and complete sadness.

I was sad because there was never really a choice.

I was made to fall, to become the first Fallen.

I stood in the middle of Heaven amongst the angels as these thoughts swirled through my mind faster and faster. No one paid any attention to the tall, beautiful, quiet angel keeping to himself.

And no one noticed my thin straight lips turn up into the smallest of smiles. Or the glazed eyes devoid of emotion, swimming with nothingness. The light turned off inside me, replaced by something less obvious and subtler, but more sinister. The only animation was the almost unnoticeable twitch of my mouth.

But if someone had been paying attention to me, they would not have been able to place the expression that flickered across my face at that moment as I smiled in response to my dark thoughts.

They would not have been able to place the look on my face, because it was the first look of its kind. One that many would mimic later on, but would never come close to the original true intent and feeling behind that look on my face: a look of pure Evil.

If I was made to be bad, I’d be bad.

I, Lucifer, smiled.

I was losing my mind.

Somewhere along the way – I don’t remember where – I pulled a string, and my unraveling began. I began having thoughts – unholy thoughts. Emotions, impure and unwelcome, welled inside me. I was angry. I was bitter. I hated.

Like a pick ax stabbed into a thin sheet of ice, a fatal fissure ominously creaked and groaned its cracking path down the frozen lake of my soul, splitting it into two entirely different parts. One part was the angel I had been, Michaela’s friend, and a holy keeper of Heaven. The other part of my soul was tainted into a smudgy disgrace. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t pull my soul back together.

I tried to talk about my conflicting feelings with Michaela, but she was always so perfect, so honorable that the words of my soul’s dissolve never came. I was too proud to let the words be spoken. But by then, when I tried to tell her, there were just too many parts of me missing, essential pieces that made me a Holy Angel. It was just too hard to reinvent those lacking parts. Especially when it was so easy to just pick a side – good or bad.

From the center of my inner frozen lake, I heard the two parts of my soul calling to me, each begging me to choose. They rattled against the bars of my bones, pulled at my skin, forcing me to pay attention. That was all I felt – a deafening clatter deep down inside of me.

This went on for ages, this indecision. I barely functioned. I rarely spoke. I hardly made it through the days.

Everyone noticed. But I didn’t hear the worried discussions or see the pressing stares sent in my direction. I stood on the fringes, too preoccupied with my internal conflict to even pretend to partake in my outside life. I felt the other angels’ frosty stares and wintry words on my chilled skin. It all added to my delirium.

I confused the other angels. I was different, even from the beginning. They didn’t want to go so far as to call me a freak, but certainly I was an anomaly.

The worst part of all was that I knew I had been created this way. I was made with a flaw, which had allowed these doubts and hateful thoughts in my mind. It might have been Michaela who was created with this deficiency. By some cruel twist of fate, I was the one chosen to crack.

When the angels felt me pull further within myself, they didn’t think much of it. They sensed my aloofness and wrote it off because I was weird. But then they sensed my emotions, and they began to suspect.

The mistrust between the angels, brewed by the thoughts in my head that I couldn’t keep hidden anymore, caused a severe disconnect. The Holy Angels began to fall apart. Michaela and the others flailed about to salvage their precious order. I sensed the uncertainty and distress they felt. Yet, I did not care, because they did not understand me.

Doubts never filled their minds. Good never had to fight against darkness for prominence in their souls. They never had to choose between two evils that begged for residence in their bodies. Their hearts had never turned to boiling black tar.

I felt things that should never be felt in a place like this, in Heaven.

Standing among my so very devout, devoted, and demure Brothers and Sisters milling around me, frantically searching to re-establish themselves, I felt all these emotions with the strongest surge.

Malevolence.

Fury.

Malice.

Wickedness.

Hatred.

Contempt.

Condescension.

Desperation.

But most of all, I felt a deadening utter and complete sadness.

I was sad because there was never really a choice.

I was made to fall, to become the first Fallen.

I stood in the middle of Heaven amongst the angels as these thoughts swirled through my mind faster and faster. No one paid any attention to the tall, beautiful, quiet angel keeping to himself.

And no one noticed my thin straight lips turn up into the smallest of smiles. Or the glazed eyes devoid of emotion, swimming with nothingness. The light turned off inside me, replaced by something less obvious and subtler, but more sinister. The only animation was the almost unnoticeable twitch of my mouth.

But if someone had been paying attention to me, they would not have been able to place the expression that flickered across my face at that moment as I smiled in response to my dark thoughts.

They would not have been able to place the look on my face, because it was the first look of its kind. One that many would mimic later on, but would never come close to the original true intent and feeling behind that look on my face: a look of pure Evil.

If I was made to be bad, I’d be bad.

I, Lucifer, smiled.

[image error]

So a few weeks ago, I met this blogger named Charli when she totally and embarrassingly schooled me on Twitter. I refuse to share the tweets here as I am still licking my wounds. Squinting eyes at you, Charli. To make matters worse for myself, she recently turned 13 years-old. 13?!? Really?!? Yes.

Okay, I’ll get over it. With time. Anyway, while Charli has blogged for over a year, she has only recently started blogging and reviewing books.

At the ripe old age of 13, I read plenty. I loved Nancy Drew and The Saddle Club. I even got in trouble for reading too much during school. But I certainly didn’t have the ability to write intelligently about what I read as Charli does.

Charli: I read around 4 books a week, depending...It used to be one or two per day, but when I moved to secondary school, it became less, and now I take notes for blogging, even less. I don't mind, though; I produce (hopefully) quality reviews when I can!

I follow a few young bloggers on Twitter, and I am going to admit that they all scare the crap out of me. I am not joking. I look at their quick-witted tweets, cheeky insider jokes and hyper-active ramblings, and I feel a little nervous twitch in my stomach. Here I am, an old person, reduced to worrying I won’t be cool enough to sit at their lunch table.

I am sure I am not alone in this! Oh, really? Maybe I am? Okayyyyy. Moving on…

Charli: How do I balance blogging, school, Scouts, homework, reading, photography course, more homework and everything else? Honestly, I don't know. When I typed that just then, I didn't realize just how much I balance! I guess it's just natural, with routine.

If Charli was trying to impress us, I think it worked. I have my routine that I occasionally stick to, but it certainly doesn’t come easy. I guess this probably has something to do with age again…

So why blogging? This whole time I thought blogging was some painful torture treatment, but not Charli. It’s her passion.

Charli: I love it. When I started, it was an outlet for my problems, and I was someone else. I was me, but I wasn't. I could pretend I didn't have all these problems going on, without having to change myself. I didn't tell my friends or family, until about 6 months later. It was my place to go, in my one hour of computer time a day. And it still is, just in a different way. I still have problems, but instead, I review books that take me somewhere else, hence the name To Another World.

I found Charli’s answer intriguing. I think maybe a lot of us have went through something similar, so, to extend a little on what Charli said, I would like to share a little bit about my own past.

I struggled a lot through college because I battled with self-doubt and body image issues, which I think a lot of young women do. I started blogging on Tumblr and following a lot of “pro-ana” blogs. These blogs basically promote and glorify anorexia. I wasn’t anorexic, but I did throw up after some meals. And I definitely hated myself. Going onto Tumblr for me was like a transformation. I would look at these posts about girls starving themselves and forming crazy intense relationships with other pro-ana bloggers, and it made me feel a part of a community if I pretended that I harmed myself in similar ways. I needed to read about their struggles and equate them with my own even though my battles were nothing like theirs. It was a very detrimental escape for me. I eventually snapped out of it, but it is really something that can suck you in if you let it.

I said all that because maybe one of you reading this is going through something similar. We all need to escape sometimes for whatever reasons. I encourage you to find a healthy outlet like Charli did with blogging her book reviews. Find a good community of supportive, happy people and insert yourself into that.

But back to Charli and her dreams for life...

Charli: Dreams are a big topic. I want to be a family law solicitor when I grow up. I want to pass my GCSE's and A-Levels well (of which I already know what I want to take) and have a family etc, all that stuff. I go deeper, of course. I want to somehow honour Simran, someday, my best friend from when I was 10 who unfortunately had a sudden death. I also want to always be there for my half-brother, half-sister and half-brother-to-be! There's a lot of bloggy dreams too, but they're less important to me, in a way...

Wow. Did you forget for a minute that she is only 13? I know, right. Crazy. I wish Charli all the best with every single one of these admirable dreams.

So moral of the story – Charli is going to take over the world. Because what’s going to stop this intelligent, witty girl? Nothing.

Nothing.

***Since 2008, I have worked on my current novel, The Hunted One. I’ve rewritten it countless times, tossed thousands and thousands of words to the side. None of it was right. But this story haunted me. I could never leave it. Luck was on my side, and I finally managed to get it close to the story I heard in my head. However, until January (when it’s published), I wanted you all to get a sense of my story about Michaela and Gabriel and the war they wage. I hope you enjoy these upcoming short stories. Pardon any cumbersome writing – I wrote this a few years ago. Sorry for grammar mistakes. I’m not an editor for a reason. Without further ado, meet Gabriel.

The Color Red – Meet Lucifer

The Color Red – Meet Lucifer

I remember the day clearly.

Looking back, it wasn’t that spectacular. The day easily might have been forgotten if not for other events.

But that wasn’t the case. That wasn’t our fate.

I walked the levels of Heaven looking for you. I never had to work hard to find you. If we were separated, I followed the thin filament of string that seemed to stretch the distance between us. Like bread crumbs, I used the filament to track you. It wasn’t a hard hunt. You were in your office. But you weren’t alone. I heard Lucifer’s voice coming through the door.

You and Lucifer had grown to become good friends. He was painfully shy and intensely introverted. But somehow, you pulled him out of his shell. He had started coming more regularly to your office just to talk. Your friendship with Lucifer was a relief to everyone. You softened him, made it easier for him to be around the other angels.

But the conversation today in your office sounded especially tense. Lucifer’s tone was distant when he spoke, like he said everything but what he wanted to talk about. His silences echoed with agitation. I sensed your nerves even through the heavy wooden door.

Normally, I just went into your office. Lucifer had grown accustom to my constant presence. But something I perceived from his manner kept me hovering at the edge of the threshold.

Michaela? I asked through my thoughts.

“Come in, Gabe.”

You sounded almost relieved. Instantly, I knew you were looking for something to put Lucifer at ease. His emotions tended to influence everyone around him. He was a powerful being, and his anxiety clearly had you on edge.

When I entered, I immediately recognized the confusion in your face. My presence did not help Lucifer’s angst, but I would not leave you alone with him like this. Lucifer withdrew back into his shell, unwilling to open up with me in the room.

“Lucifer, was there something else? Is everything okay?” you asked again for what I imagined was the hundredth time. Lucifer ignored your question.

“I just wanted to thank you, Michaela.” Lucifer’s words were genuine, I sensed. But he never looked you in the eye. “Your friendship means more to me than you can know. All I’ve I ever wanted was to earn your respect.”

“Of course you have my respect, Lucifer. You are my Brother,” you said, frowning. “Are you sure there wasn’t something else you wanted to say?”

“It is nothing that cannot wait till later. I doubt if it’s really anything at all. Don’t worry.” Lucifer smiled. It was not Lucifer’s nature to smile.

Before you responded, Lucifer turned toward me and nodded. “Gabriel.”

“Lucifer, good to see you,” I said.

I still stood near the door, so I felt the tension in his body as he walked past. He paused at my side, turning his head slightly over his shoulder to look back at you. He stared at the rug’s pattern on the floor.

“Till we meet again, Michaela. Get some rest.”

“You too,” you murmured.

Once he was out of earshot, you turned toward me still visibly perplexed. “That was the weirdest conversation. Actually, I seriously doubt that even counted as a conversation.”

I silently waited for you to continue as I walked into the room and petted Bruce, your pet tiger. Some would find it odd that you had a pet Bengal tiger lounging on your sofa. Honestly, I thought you and Bruce were perfect for each other. You always had a penchant for the human, Bruce Springsteen, who you named the tiger after.

“We talked around everything but whatever issue he has. But it was like he never mustered the courage to just come out with it. I’m worried, Gabe. It felt weird.”

I looked up at your sweet, frowning face. You took so much personally. It’s one of the reasons you are such a great General. But you make everyone’s problems your own in an effort to lighten our burdens. We all respected your compassion tremendously, but I knew how your great capacity to love us wore you down and tore you apart behind our closed doors.

You stood barely moving, watching my hands pet Bruce. Only when I spoke did you look at me. But I knew you only saw Lucifer’s secretive eyes.

“He will tell you soon enough. Obviously, it wasn’t too important or he would have told you then.”

“Or it’s so important he couldn’t tell me.”

I knew that tone in your voice. That was the conclusion you had come to. As a rule, no one kept anything from you. So, of course you would think the worst when someone actually did. You were very stubborn. It was one of the many tiny reasons I loved you. I sighed.

“Well, there is nothing that can be done now. Let’s head home and get some rest.”

You nodded, looking grim. As I held the door for Bruce to head out in front of us, you gathered scrolls from your desk to take with you. When we stepped outside, all was normal. Life in the City looked typical. Lucifer’s secret could not be as important as you thought.

Hand in hand, we walked toward the courtyard. I remember feeling happy as we walked. It was a careless, thoughtless emotion. I wouldn’t feel it again.

I smiled as we walked. You were wrapped up in your own thoughts, like normal, but we looked like a family, and I remember loving that notion. Bruce twitched about with the grace only a wild cat can possess in front of us; busy angels zoomed about overhead. All was not quiet in the City, but I found peace holding your hand and watching our shadows walk along the pathway.

I knew you were worried, you often were. But something close to relief cycled through me when you laughed as Bruce leapt into the air, barely catching the robe of a low-flying angel with his claw. The poor angel tilted dangerously in the air, nearly crashing into the ground and nearby buildings. I squeezed your hand as you called out an apology. I was always telling you that you needed to lighten up.

You constantly carried the weight of the world on your shoulders.

We didn’t notice how crowded the courtyard was until we were walking up the steps. Knowledgeable angels gave a respectful wide berth to Bruce, allowing us to easily make our way to the middle of the crowd.

Everyone had gathered around the Tree of Knowledge. All eyes were turned upward. Everyone murmured in excited voices. Smiles filled faces. Eyes were especially bright and shining. The abundance of radiant wings caused an extra degree of illumination to the air.

It took me a moment to notice what caught everyone’s attention. But you noticed right away.

The blossoms from the Tree still perpetually floated down in hordes to the courtyard’s floor. But as one passed in front of my face, I understood the cause for excitement. The once pure heavenly white – the only color we had here- of the petals had changed. From the white edges, the pigment started getting darker and stranger, the white fading into a light pink that darkened intensely closer to the center of the blossom. The innermost heart of the flower was stained a vibrant blood red.

All of them were like that. Only on Earth had we seen color. So, we did not know how to classify what we saw before us. The colors were an onslaught of visual dynamics that excited our senses. We all felt the spike of adrenaline race through us. It was shocking.

All around us, we heard voices whisper the word ‘miracle’ and ‘phenomenon’ over and over.

It was beautiful in its strangeness. The red was immensely harsh, almost brutal. It was the color of spilt blood, like the blood of the mankind had splattered onto each petal.

I turned to you with the beginnings of smile spreading across my lips. My mouth opened to speak. I was excited, like the others. But no words came out when I saw your face. My throat dried, tightening in around itself.

You did not smile. Actually, you looked horrified. Your body grew rigid and deadly still against mine. Immediately, my excitement vanished. Your wide, fearful eyes looked into my own. We stood in silence for a moment, me waiting for you to speak and you too afraid to voice your thought.

But when you did speak, I felt a cold chill run down my spine. My wings slunk together tight against my back. I could feel my feathers tremble, like a cold wind had fluttered through them. My skin prickled. An odd clammy sick feeling settled into the pit of my gut. It was an odd sense of foreboding that I had never felt before in this place of perfection. But it was like a cloud had passed over our heads.

“Something is wrong.” Your voice trembled.

From that moment on, nothing was ever right again.

Meet Mark T. Conard. Not to be confused with Mark Conard. If you email [email protected], you will get a kindly older gentleman who sets you straight on your error and directs you to [email protected].

My bad. Sorry, bro.

Mark T. Conard earned his Ph.D. in Philosophy from Temple University in Philadelphia, and is now Associate Professor of Philosophy at Marymount Manhattan College in New York City. In addition to writing fiction, he’s the co-editor of The Simpsons and Philosophy (2001), and Woody Allen and Philosophy (2004), both published by Open Court Press; and is editor of The Philosophy of Film Noir (2006), The Philosophy of Neo-Noir (2006), The Philosophy of Martin Scorsese (2007), and The Philosophy of the Coen Brothers (2008), all published by The University Press of Kentucky. He listens to jazz, is known to drink bourbon, and enjoys fine cigars. He in fact does have a friend, believe it or not, and his favorite invaders of Rome are the Visigoths. In addition, he’s fond of loud, piercing noises, boating accidents, and non sequiturs.

After reading that bio, I realized two things. Mark is smart. He even looks smart. Consider me intimidated. Secondly, this scotch stuff surprises me. I asked Mark if he thought he was a cowboy or something. Mark set me straight – cowboys drink whiskey and pipe-smoking, tweed-wearing detectives drink scotch. Right.

I asked Mark to recommend a brand of scotch I will never try.

Mark: My favorite go-to bourbon is Knob Creek, but there are lots of good ones out there: Woodford Reserve, Blanton’s, Booker’s, Bulleit (a lot of ‘Bs’), Maker’s Mark.

Mark acknowledges that it is somewhat cliché that he drinks scotch and writes suspense novels.

Okay, I’ll get on track here. I asked Mark how he got started writing.

Mark: I started writing short prose pieces and bad poetry when I was in college and then grad school. Writing suspense fiction in a way happened accidentally. I had a friend and drinking buddy when I was in grad school in Philly. He told me he was working on a screenplay, and I was intrigued by that idea, so we decided to work on one together and started kicking some ideas around. We didn’t have any particular genre in mind, but a story developed over many drinks, and finally we came up with a plot outline for a mystery/suspense story. He left it to me to turn into a screenplay, which I didn’t know how to do, so I set it aside. One summer, years later, I pulled it out and started writing it as a novel (since I at least knew what a novel was supposed to look like). I hadn’t read any crime or suspense fiction before that, so I started reading in the genre at that time as well. That was my introduction to authors who became my major influences: Elmore Leonard, Jim Thompson, Raymond Chandler, James Ellroy, and David Goodis. I developed the outline for the story, figured out the characters, wrote and rewrote, and finally I finished it. I enjoyed the process so much that I started on a second one right away and have continued ever since.

I have to say that I loved that answer. I enjoyed hearing that Mark’s path to writing was as genuine and organic as they come. Inspires confidence, right? I’m feeling it.

Speaking of feeling it, I took a philosophy class once, and I literally felt a pain in my head. Needless to say, I dropped the class. Then dropped out of college. Don’t worry! I finished eventually. I asked Mark how his philosophy background influenced his writing.

Mark: I’ve attempted from time to time to infuse particular philosophical ideas into my fiction, but so far I haven’t been very successful. It usually feels forced. That being said, philosophy as I understand it is a matter of living the examined life, to paraphrase Socrates. Training in philosophy gives one an enlarged and richer understanding of the world and human existence, and I try to bring that understanding to my writing. Further, philosophy hones your analytical and critical reasoning skills, and these are very useful for plotting out stories and solving plot problems, etc.

Me: I see you have co-written and written a wide array of books. What was the inspiration for that?

Mark: I take it you mean the works I’ve done in popular culture and philosophy. Those spring from two related ideas or impulses. The first is a desire to make philosophy more accessible to a wider audience by examining traditional ideas via texts in popular culture like television shows and movies. The second, which is related, is a belief that these elements of popular culture are worthy of philosophical analysis themselves. So that’s what the essays in these volumes do. They either explore philosophical ideas through a pop culture text or analyze a text philosophically, and all with the hope of making philosophy more accessible to non-specialists.

Ha! “Non-specialists.” Yeah, I’d claim that description. So, Mark goes from philosophizing the Simpsons to his current works – Dark as Night and Killer’s Coda. I have to say, suspense writers impress me. I asked Mark how he got in the head of the fat, twitchy, lowlife character from Dark as Night.

Mark: I don’t have any specific method for devising and developing characters. When I first started writing, I sometimes used people I knew as models for some characters, and often times there was a chunk of me in the protagonist. I don’t think that’s the case anymore. I just use my imagination to come up with the right characters for that particular book. Over time you hone your intuitions about these things, I think, just like your ear gets better and better, such that you can hear when the prose sounds right.

Me: What has your path to publication been like?

Mark: It’s been difficult. I’ve gone back and forth between using an agent and submitting to small publishers that take direct submissions. Early on I had an agent who turned out to be useless, so by the time I’d realized that I’d written Dark as Night, which was my fourth novel. I sent it to some of those small presses, and the good guys at the now-defunct Uglytown loved it and decided to publish it. I had two other books under contract with Uglytown when they went out of business. After they did, I started searching and found a respectable New York literary agent. He shopped my work around for a while, but wasn’t ever able to get a publisher to bite. He was an older man, and he passed away at the beginning of last year. At the end of the year I was contacted by a filmmaker who was interested in buying the movie rights to Dark as Night. I contacted Adam Chromy, an agent whom I’d been in touch with over the years, and asked him to work out the movie deal for me. He had started The Rogue Reader, which published suspense fiction as e-books, and he invited me to publish with them. So last March we re-released Dark as Night as an e-book, along with Killer’s Coda, which hadn’t previously been published. Now it looks like The Rogue Reader isn’t going to publish anymore, so I’m back to thinking about other presses.

Me: Writing obviously has many ups and downs. Could you share one of the “downs” that you feel has impacted you in your career? Did you want to give up ever?

Mark: The biggest downer is the struggle to find a publisher. You pour your heart into you work, and you want people to read it, but you can’t find anyone to take a chance on you. What’s even more frustrating is to see some of the awful things that do get published. As difficult as all that is, it never made me want to give up. You have to write because you love it, because you feel the need to do it, because you have a passion for it. To do it for any other reason is a mistake. You have to plug away at it, hone your craft, and hope that someday you’ll get recognized.

Me: And on the flip side of that, what is a moment of kindness or support you have received during your career that has really stuck with you?

Mark: That’s easy. I recently have gotten to know and become friends with Loren Kleinman (http://lorenkleinman.com/), who has been incredibly kind and supportive of my writing. Her interest and enthusiasm mean a lot to me and have really re-energized me in regards to my work. Thanks, Loren!

What a compliment! This is exactly what inspired this blog – the writer to writer connection. We are a community who should support and uplift each other, because it is a hard business and clearly we are all crazy. So let’s just be crazy together. Words of support and kindness have such an impact. Why not spread that around? Share your story with others. Someone might just need to hear it.

If you would like to visit Mark T. Conard places and not Mark Conard places, here is the correct information…

Website: markconard.com

Twitter: https://twitter.com/MarkTConard

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/mtconard

***Since 2008, I have worked on my current novel, The Hunted One. I’ve rewritten it countless times, tossed thousands and thousands of words to the side. None of it was right. But this story haunted me. I could never leave it. Luck was on my side, and I finally managed to get it close to the story I heard in my head. However, until January (when it’s published), I wanted you all to get a sense of my story about Michaela and Gabriel and the war they wage. I hope you enjoy these upcoming short stories. Pardon any cumbersome writing – I wrote this a few years ago. Sorry for grammar mistakes. I’m not an editor for a reason. Without further ado, meet Gabriel.

Gabriel’s Creation – from Gabriel’s Point of View

When I opened my eyes for the first time, all I saw was leaves. Thousands of leaves. Oak leaves. Maple leaves. White bud. Hickory. Elm. Red bud. Bradford pear. Lombardy popular. Black cherry. They hung all around me, consuming my brand-new vision. I smelled their brassy tang. I reached my fingertips to touch their curled edges, but they were further away than they appeared.

I was not disoriented like you might imagine I would be after opening my eyes for the first time. I was not waking up. I had not drifted off in a nap. I had not just closed my eyes for a rest or contemplation. I was never knocked unconscious and dragged into some unknown place.

Instead, I only became. I blinked into the light and felt a certain assurance. I had been created not more than a moment before yet I understood peace as I thought only of your name.

I pulled my long legs beneath me and eased onto my feet. I straightened slowly, adjusting to the pull of my powerful, twining muscles. Wisps of shining hair tickled around my face in the light breeze. I wore filmy white pants slung low on my hips. I ran my hand across the ripple of my stomach muscles. The muscles in my back tugged as something caught in the wind.

My shadow stirred on the soft grass beside me. A tall man slipped from the tips of my feet, flowing across the field. Upon his back stretched two huge wings, feathers fluttering in the wind. The wings crested almost to the top of his head, cascading like water the length of his body, stopping mid-calf.

Angel.

I am Gabriel, I thought.

Excited, I craned my neck to see my wings. They were truly amazing. The feathers were like molten lava flowing across the breadth and length of their structure. With an easy twitch of a muscle, they fanned out to my sides and expanded to their fill width. The facets of my feathers caught in the light, reflecting a million shining diamonds into the air. My wings seemed to cast their own light around my body, like I was spotlighted from above.

A small, crooked smile of satisfaction pulled at my lips. My wings were just an extension of my organs or muscles. Truly, it felt like they originated from within me. I knew if I angled them just so I might catch the breeze just right so that I would lift into the air. Yet, I remained on the ground.

I stood in a circular field surrounded by tall deciduous trees of all types. The limbs stretched long from each tree, reaching and meeting in the middle of the clearing to form a dome of sorts over my head. The grass blew around my ankles, tickling at my skin.

There was no sun, yet there was plenty of light from an omnipresent glow that radiated from every surface, even me. The air around me glimmered and glistened like damp glass. My eye caught on the air’s molecules, refracting back to me in a beautiful symmetry.

Heaven. Home.

I looked to the east, naturally orienting myself towards that which I waited. My eyes locked into position, staring unblinking at one spot along the eastern tree line. I stood unnaturally still in the middle of that field, hardly breathing, solely focused.

I waited.

I waited for you.

Michaela.

“Michaela,” I said, testing your name in my mouth. My voice was deep and gravely, your name too pretty for my heavy tongue. But it was perfect. Already you were perfect for me.

In those earliest moments of my existence, I knew you as well as I knew myself. Without you, I was not complete. We were infinitely tied together for eternity. Our creation centered on our togetherness. We were meant to be together forever.

I knew you were here a moment before you stepped into our field. I sensed you. My being lit up from the inside, causing the air molecules around me to spin and dance faster. Their glimmer made me dizzy. Or maybe it was the anticipation of you that made my mind whirl and spin.

You passed underneath the trees and swished through the tall grass, a warm light seeping from your skin. You glowed as you smiled, recognizing me as I recognized you. I watched you, soaked you in, like my own sun rising for the first time. I would not ever need to question. You would always be answer enough for me.

I was your moon, and I would forever chase after you through the skies.

You drew closer and our fates were sealed to each other’s. Your hair was like strands of glass slicing down your back. Wings as large as mine were folded at your back. Your eyes were crystal liquid underneath dark banks of long lashes. Your shy, quite smile completely stole my entire existence from me.

I didn’t breathe in those moments as I watched your every move. I wanted to know that you were real and tangible in front of me. I needed prove to myself that you were whole and complete, not just a desperate imagination.

Clearly, I loved you.

When you were close enough, I pulled your slight frame into my arms. I couldn’t stand it any longer, I had to touch you. You practically melted into me, and at that moment, we lost our individuality. From then on, it would be nearly impossible for anyone to tell where one of us ended and other began.

But back then we were so enraptured, we didn’t think to miss our individual selves. We never had it to begin with, so what was there to long for? Or at least that was how I felt. I wonder now if you felt the same way as I did back then. Back when things were simple and there was only right, only good.

You leaned back and looked into my eyes. The way you stared at me sent chills across my skin. Even early on, you were so intense. Your gaze alone felt like fire.

I realized you were speaking, but I hadn’t heard a word you said.

You told me there were others like us. That we were going to meet them. I only watched the way your lips moved as you spoke. I was fascinated with how the sound of your words hit the air, tinkling the molecules around your mouth.

You lead us away from the field toward the others. I didn’t care about the others. I just concentrated on memorizing your face, committing every detail to memory. I must have looked at you a million times during that walk with quick glances to confirm the tilt of your chin or the slope of the skin between your nose and upper lip. I studied the point of your collarbones, the delicate slope of your shoulders. Your hands were feminine, yet powerful in my grip. You must have thought I was crazy. But I had to know everything about you. Yet, you seemed like you already knew everything about me.

By the time we arrived, your face was forever charred into my mind. Your voice was eternally in my memory. Your smell. Your touch. It was all seared into me. I knew I could find you in a crowd of thousands just by the way the air around you moved or the wild gestures you used as you talked or the sound of a whispered word from you or the way your hair carelessly fluttered around your face.

The urgency to secure myself to you was a desperate gnawing in my belly, like even then I thought I might lose you. I promised myself that I would never lose you. No matter what, I would be certain of that.

But I was naïve and young. We were both so different back then.

Back then.

Mina Vaughn, real-life pinup girl and shoe vixen, offers a refreshing take on sexy reading. “Kink with a Wink,” she says about her novel How to Discipline Your Vampire. Here’s the description, courtesy of Mina.

Cerise Norrel, Type A substitute teacher by day, is ready to quit

being a domme. Despite her best intentions, none of her partners can

keep up with her scene fetish and attention to detail—let alone her

demand that they have a costume and set waiting every afternoon by the

time she’s home from school.

Over a dozen potential subs have left her in the past year, but just

when Cerise thinks it’s impossible—that she’ll have to go back to

vanilla relationships, or be alone forever–she meets William, who

wants to make all her fantasies come true. He turns her home into a

geisha’s dream apartment, a concert hall with a grand piano (which he

uses to play an original composition while wearing a tuxedo), and even

rents an abandoned loft for a zombie apocalypse scene—complete with

canned goods.

But there’s something strange about William. Well, a lot of strange

things. He must be absurdly rich, since he can afford to provide

extravagant costumes and props on a daily basis without having to

leave work early. He must be insane, since he puts up with Cerise’s

over-the-top demands. And most importantly, he doesn’t redden when

he’s spanked, and his skin is as cool as satin sheets. When Cerise

discovers she’s become domme to the infamous “Chilly Willy,” as he’s

known throughout BDSM urban lore, she begins to find out there’s a

whole lot more to her handsome submissive than a creative mind and a

hard body.

And when it’s William, ironically, who starts pressing Cerise to give

him the kind of commitment she’s never given anyone, it’ll take

everything she has to work through her issues, confront her past, and

learn to be vulnerable.

So why write about a dominatrix substitute teacher and a submissive vampire?

“I went that route because it’s what I can do well, I think.  Go with your strong points, you know?  I can’t be SERIOUS, and it’s hard for me to write stories that have no little spice of supernatural fantasy,” Mina says.

I feel ya, Mina. I love my Fifty Shades as much as the next horn-dog, but you can only take so much before all those orgasms get depressing, right? Right?

Or maybe that’s just me. Whatever. Anyway, I found that How to Discipline Your Vampire offers a unique spin on the erotica genre’s typical style with its humor and supernatural tidbits. Plus, there are sexy scenes galore, and they certainly never get boring!

I have really enjoyed Mina’s writing style, which she describes as “silly smut.” So what’s Mina’s story? How did she get to this point in her career?

After taking a creative writing class in college, Mina was hooked even though she put her writing on the back-burner for five years after college. Probably trying to be a normal adult…thank heavens she snapped out of that! Mina tells me that writing is “just something my personality needed to do.” Mina wrote three books before catching the attention of agent, Jessica Sinsheimer, with How To Discipline Your Vampire. One month after signing with her agent, Mina landed a deal with Simon and Schuster.

Now for the important stuff:

Me: Your house is burning down and it’s really freaking hot! You’re panicking! You look through the flames, searching for a hot firefighter. Instead, your eyes settle on the closet. You can only save one pair of shoes, which ones do you grab?

Mina: I have a pair of Tory Burch leather lace-up pumps that are to die for.  I’d never leave those behind.

How many is she leaving behind? That’s right, I asked Mina to count her shoes. I told you this wouldn’t be a normal blog.

Mina counted and she has a total of 30 shoes. In my opinion, I think she rounded.

Mina: I don’t think that’s so crazy though!

I counted the shoes in my closet. I have fourteen, including my smells-like-@$$ sperries, I-pretend-to-be-fit running shoes, and my permanently-ground-in-horse-poop cowboy boots. Cause I’m a legit cowgirl. And I step in legit horse poo.

That’s gross, I know. So let’s move on to the next question I asked Mina.

Me: Who would you be if you could live the life of any character from any book?

Mina: I’d love to be Danaerys from George R. R. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire series.  She’s so powerful and, dude, she owns dragons.

I would have said Clary from The Mortal Instruments. Even though it makes me a tweenie wanna-be, I’d scam on Jace all the time if I were Clary. Of course only after they had figured out they weren’t brother and sister. Oh crap! Spoiler alert! Too late? My bad.

Anyways, touché, Mina. Dragons trump everything.

So now for the serious stuff. Sorry if you were waiting on that the whole time. The reason I started this blog is to profile writers, aspiring writers, editors, bloggers, etc. and to showcase their real-life stories. I wanted to create a community where people could talk about the most important key to success – support.

I asked Mina who her support system was, and she said, “My street team means the world to me, and I have a group of writer friends who call ourselves “the Filets” and they are my ANGELS.”

We all have moments of kindness and support that stands out in our careers. That time someone gave us a chance or a good review or an affirmation at a much needed time. We never forget those.

“When I went to RWA Nationals in Atlanta, I met pretty much every writer I love.  And you know what?  They were nice back!  I got to hang out with Alice Clayton, Jenn Probst, Delilah S. Dawson, Tiffany Reisz and Shoshanna Evers…I feel like it was the most positive experience I’ve had.”

So moral of the story? Be nice. Be kind. Be friendly. Bitter medicine if you meet someone early in the morning and you haven’t had your coffee yet. If that happens, something is wrong with you. Who leaves the house before coffee?!? Much less talks to people…

Me: Quick! In ten seconds what is one adjective you would use to describe being a writer?

Mina: Daunting!

Well, that pretty much sums it up. Thanks, Mina, for sharing with us!

If you are reading this and you have a moment, why don’t you tell us about when you first met other writers you admired or loved?

Check Mina out here…

@minavaughn

www.minavaughn.com

And check out her book here…

Buy now on Amazon: http://amzn.to/1brX1bT

Other formats: http://books.simonandschuster.com/How-to-Discipline-Your-Vampire/Mina-Vaughn/9781476743523

Or add it to your Goodreads http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/17571282-how-to-discipline-your-vampire

Why I started this blog…

I will be releasing my first novel in January and in all my marketing research, the one thing I kept coming across was blogging. I kept reading that it was a necessity for writers. Imagine my dismay.

I was into Facebook in, like, high school. I totally missed the Twitter bus. I think I had a Myspace once. Maybe? Whatever, my point is that I really really really didn’t want to blog.

I didn’t want to blog about myself. Because let’s be honest, at this point, who cares? I also couldn’t write about how to write, because I am still blundering through that myself. Write about my experiences? Let’s be honest. I have a 9-5 job, a horse that I show competitively, a husband, and a mastiff puppy. My great experience this week? I took a shower.

So those blog ideas were out.

Color me daunted.

So I got to thinking…writers are always told to write the stories that we would want to read, right? So what kind of blog would I want to read?

I can only read so much self-help blogs before I turn into a blubbering, tear-streaked heap of “holy crap, I can’t do this.” And reading about other people’s exciting lives depresses me.

But I love reading about people. I enjoy hearing about moments of struggle and how they are overcome.  Nothing is more real than reading about the high and low moments in someone’s life. It’s an authentic connection – person to person, story to story.

So maybe I could write about that? I tweeted my idea out on my Twitter (which I’m addicted to now, by the way) and the response I received was outstanding. People were genuinely interested in the idea.

Wow.

So now I have a ton of people who want to share their stories. How exciting? Definitely.

That’s why I started this blog. So that I can share the stories of all the fine folk in the writing industry – aspiring writers, published writers, editors, bloggers, whoever.  I want to spread support through other people’s words.

I know for me, sometimes I just need to hear about another person’s struggle. I need to know that I am not alone. Every now and then, I have to hear certain words. Most of the time I have no idea what I need to hear, not until I hear them. But when I do, I find the strength to continue along this road to publication. I hope, for this blog’s sake, that I am not alone. Maybe you need to someone’s words? Hopefully you will find them here.

I would also take this time to warn future readers. I suck at grammar, especially commas. Apologies. My reliance on spell check is purely a consequence of my generation’s texting obsession. I try to be funny. So I’m sorry if I’m weird at times and not at all funny.

That’s it.

You can call me Meg, but only because my mom hates it.

Thanks J

Oh! Also, leave comments. Let’s talk. Let’s connect. Let’s build a community.