Thursday, March 31, 2016

Thursday's Opening Scene - The Temple of Fyre #MFRWauthor #Fantasy #Romance

Chapter One

Ria stuffed the scroll she’d taken from the shelves beneath her caftan and tightened the sash to make sure the cylinder holding the rolled papyrus remained hidden. Beads of perspiration covered her forehead. She rubbed the sleeve of her robe over her face. The night air held sultry remnants of the heat of the day. Usually, the thick walls of the temple complex kept the rooms and corridors cool. Tonight was different. The usual night breezes were absent, so the heat remained. Perhaps the approaching solstice was the cause?

Or, maybe her fear of discovery caused her heart to thump against her chest and her muscles to tighten into confining bands? She was in a place where she had no right to be without the presence of one of the priestesses. Acolytes were forbidden full access to the scrolls in the scriptorium. She drew a deep breath. She’d acted out of necessity. The scroll beneath her caftan was one she’d discovered during another of her night searches. She wasn’t permitted to read this one, but she had, and the words stirred questions her tutors refused to address.

On the morrow, her ability to control the flames of the fyrestones would be tested. She would be ordered to call flames from a pair of scarlet crystals and blend her blaze with those raised by the priestesses of the circle. Then, the chief priestess would assign her a task. Ria believed the things she’d read in this particular scroll would help her during the ordeal. The test was not without risk. One slip and the flames she sought to control could turn her into a living torch.

She crept to the scriptorium door and peered into the hall. With senses alert, she listened and searched the shadows cast by the flickering torches on the white plaster of the walls. Sensing no one was nearby she scurried along the corridor toward the living quarters of the priestesses and acolytes. With luck, she would reach her room without being discovered.

Her hand pressed against the scroll she wanted to read again. The words of this particular one were vastly different from the lessons she’d been taught by the priestesses. Had they lied? Were the ways to use the fyrestones described in these writings true, or were they only a fable invented by some ancient scribe?

There were other scrolls which told tales that seemed unreal. The aged priestess in charge of the scriptorium had laughed when Ria asked about dragons with eyes the color of the scarlet fyrestones. The old woman scoffed when Ria showed her passages describing wands wielded by wizards that sent lashes of bright or dark flames to control people.

There was no one she could ask if this scroll contained truths. Questions weren’t encouraged. Still, she wanted to believe what she’d read in this scroll about the uses of the stones. They told of helping the people, and that appealed to her.

Ria sighed. Since the day she’d been bought from the slavers by the chief priestess, her life, though interesting had been lonely. Not for her the crowded classrooms, or the dormitory where she could form friendships with the other acolytes. She had her own chamber and a private bathing room. 
During her lessons, she’d been the only student. Even her meals had been taken with the priestesses, not the other acolytes.

Why had she been kept isolated from the other acolytes? What make her so different? Like Ria, most of the others had been brought to Rosti by the slavers. At twenty, she was a year or two younger than most of the young women who had entered the temple with her.

She’d learned to call fire from every color of the crystals and learned how to blend the flames to form sheets of fire. She could impose maps and pictures on the sheets and knew the ways of sending spears of flame to various places. From the tiny flames of the white, to yellow, orange, and scarlet fyrestones, her progress had been steady.

A peal of laughter made her stiffen. She ducked into a shadowed alcove. After the evening meal, acolytes were to be in their rooms, not wandering in the halls. A pair of senior priestesses, their orange robes gleaming in the light from the hall torches, appeared. The women hurried past Ria’s hiding place and entered the harras.

Ria trailed behind them. The noises from the studs’ quarters stirred her curiosity. The men seldom left the harras, except for exercise in the garden, or when they were summoned to the room of one of the priestesses. Until Ria passed her final test, she wasn’t allowed into the rooms where the men were kept. Several times, she had spied on the studs, but only during the day, and never in the evening when the priestesses visited. She paused beside the beaded curtain and peered inside.

Her eyes widened. Most of the men were nude or scantily clad. Priestesses reclined on low couches. Studs offered beverages and finger foods. Ria watched as one of the men fondled a priestess’ breasts. Another man swayed to the sound of a flute. He held his organ in his hand. Ria felt a stirring low in her belly. Her breath caught in her throat.

Malera’s husky laughter rolled toward Ria. Before the chief priestess could discover her, Ria ducked into the hall leading to her chamber. When she reached the doorway, she carefully parted the beaded curtain and slipped into the room. If she’d been caught, Malera would have been furious. The chief priestess’ temper outbursts often ended in an injury for the culprit.

Ria sank on the bed. The scene in the harras filled her thoughts and stirred her curiosity. What would have happened next? Though she’d been betrothed before her clan had sold her to the slavers, he had died, and the women hadn’t yet instructed her on the ways of a woman and a man.

A frown wrinkled her brow. The lessons of her teachers arose. Acolytes were forbidden to interact with men, except for official business. A priestess was permitted encounters, but she must never allow a man’s organ to enter her body. Such a surrender would destroy her ability to control the flames she drew from the fyrestones.

Memories of her first training session with the chief priestess had been a series of commands. Once again, Ria had heard Malera’s throaty voice raised in warning.

“A priestess is not permitted to bear a child. To give birth means the loss of power. She must find a daughter among the acolytes. For that reason, I called you from the plains before your clan brought you to the marriage bed. If I hadn’t, your talent would have been lost. When my days as chief priestess end, you will take my place. Though you are not of my body, you are the child of my spirit.”
At first, those words had brought Ria pleasure and a sense of smugness. Of all the acolytes in the temple, she was special. Lately, she’d begin to question her mentor’s motives. Ria remembered no call. All she knew was her betrothed died suddenly, and the next day, her clan sold her. Had Malera sent the slavers?

Ria pushed her questions aside. She lifted a white fyrestone from the bedside table and gazed into the multi-colored depths. With care, she called a flame and lit the candles on the low table. She drew the purloined scroll from beneath her caftan and extracted the rolled papyrus from the metal container. After finding a comfortable position, she carefully unrolled the scroll to read again the words that had intrigued her.

Since the prime temple in the hills was abandoned, a circle has been established in each hamlet. The circle of fyrestones and their wielders will call forth the flames to protect the people. These crystals should be used to heal, to cleanse, and to bring peace and plenty to the hamlet. Male and female will be trained to use the stones for the benefit of all.

Ria sighed. Should she believe her mentor or the words of the scroll? How often had Malera told her the commoners were there to serve the priestesses? Ria ran her finger along the next lines.

There are five varieties of the opaline crystals bearing fire in their depths. All hold the power of the sun. The smallest is the white. This stone holds all the colors of the flames in its core. Any of the people of the land can use this fyrestone to kindle a blaze on the hearth and to light candles to illuminate the darkness.

To use the yellow, orange, or scarlet, the wielder must be trained. The rare blue stone needs two to call the flames, Male and female who must be united in body, heart, and mind. Woe comes to the person who tries to use the blue crystal without the triple bond.

What did it mean? Until she’d seen this scroll, she’d never heard of a blue fyrestone. She lifted the white she’d used to light the candles and studied the swirl of colors. She saw yellow, orange, and scarlet. She also saw blue.

Unable to answer the questions plaguing her, she hid the scroll beneath her bed. After bathing, she sought sleep. Tomorrow for the first time, she would take her place in the circle and play a role in the temple rituals. She would control the flames raised by the priestesses who drew on the yellow and orange, and blend them with the fire of her scarlet. Curiosity about the coming test surfaced and colored her dreams.

Wednesday, March 30, 2016

Wednesday's Writer's Tip - More on Voice #MFRWauthor

Decisions help hone an author's voice. The first one to look at is - Are you an Objective or a Subjective writer. Today, subjective seems to be the choice of many writers. Exploring the emotions and inner thoughts and reasons for actions seem to abound. The objective writr tells the story as it in and doesn't dig much into the whys of a charcters actions. They do have all the basic elements, character and plot but there's not much exploring the character's heads.

The voice is embroidered by the way a writer uses exposition, description, narration and action. Each writer uses these in different ways, ways that are natural to him, her or to the kind of story he writes.

Now we come to the problem of imitating. That means trying to duplicate another writer's way of story telling. We've all read stories that shout imitation. Using a writer's style and trying to make it the writer's own. Sometimes it troubles me when I hear someone say I write like John Smith. That's when I know I'm doing somethign wrong and pushing too hard for an effect. But often a writer admires a particular writer and makes a study of this writer's work. Certain bits will creep hinto his own writing. Think of the writers where you have read everything they wrote and you will find you use some of their elements but in your own way. What the writer does is use bits and pieces that speak to him and he adapts them in some way that makes that bit his own.

Tuesday, March 29, 2016

Tuesday's Inspiration - Finding A Reader - Triggered by Bird by Bird #MFRWauthor

The title of this bit of inspiration isn't about finding the mass of readers you believe will buy your book but about finding that reader or reader who will give you advice. Sometimes you hate what theysay. Sometimes you love it. The real thing is when one of them says something that makes you think about your story. Some authors call these people a Beta reader.

This person isn't an editor. Editors look for other things. What you want is someone who can tell you if the story works for them. Asking a relative may or may not be a good idea. Often relatives are the kind to pat you on the head and tell you everything is wonderful. Oh, they may correct your spelling or grammar but they aren't hitting the nits you want someone to see. This person may be a member of your critique group, someone you've learned to trust.

I had one friend who did this for me. Her critiques were great and spot on. She helped me make the stories into ones that were good. Since her death, I haven't found another but I often hear her voice in my head pointing out directions that are new and make the story better.

Monday, March 28, 2016

Meandering On Monday with Janet Lane Walters #MFRWauthor #poetry #Writing

Meander 1 _ Poem


Your echo footsteps cast a spell.
Goodbye, my love, you could not stay.
Soft murmuring trumpets sound the knell.

I dismissed my feelings' sentinel.
My cautious heart, I could not obey.
Your phantom footsteps cast a spell.

Your golden laughter pierces my cell.
Chased aging shadows far away,
Soft murmuring shadows sound the knell.

I watched my thoughts of gloom dispel.
No longer morbid memories prey.
Your echo footsteps cast a spell.

Thoughts of silver singing made me well.
Days of flowers held in a bouquet.
Soft murmuring trumpets sound the knell.

Now at your leaving I rebel.
I hide my tears. I won't inveigh.
Your echo footsteps cast a spell.
Soft murmuring trumpets sound the knell.

Meander 2 - Aging. When the rain approaches I feel the coming in every bone of my body. That is part of the process of aging. Many days I wish there were no signals but they come. At least my mind manages to keep pace with my days. It hurts to see those I know slowly forgetting what happened yesterday but remember what belonged to years ago.

Meander 3 - Writing - This month three books released and another put up for pre-release. Just recieved a fourth from my published to go through the revisions. I'm delaying this for today and probably for tomorrow. Am moving forward with my current project. As I was falling asleep these words popped into my head. "The emporer is gone. The four heiresses have vanished." Not exactly what i need at present - another story forming when I have so many in the pipeline. I'll keep writing for as long as I can.

Sunday, March 27, 2016

Sunday's Book - Temple of Fyre - Island of Fyre - Book One #MFRWauthor #fantasy #romance

Sold by her family to the priestesses of the Temple of Fyre, Ria soon masters using each of the four fyrestones, white, yellow, orange and scarlet. Her curiosity leads her to the archives and there, she learns things that disturb her. There are no men serving as priests but in the past there were. Men are kept in the harras where the priestesses visit. On the day of her testing she is ordered to perform a task she dislikes and refuses to destroy a town. Many of the priestesses fall into unconsciousness. Melera, the chief priestess, beats and banishes Ria for the carrion crows to consume.

Ari was abandoned as a child and found by two elderly firestone miners. He has pursued this and is the best of the finders. He goes to the temple to sell the stones he has gleaned. On leaving, Ria attempts to steal the fyrestone he has worn since the day he was found. He thinks she is a boy and a thief and he takes her to his room at the inn. On discovering her identity, he refuses to turn her over to the priestesses and they leave town. They are searching for the fabled blue fyrestones. They also learn to use them they must be bonded physically, emotionally and spiritually. Can they learn to master the blue stones and defeat Malera so they can rule the temple with love and understanding?

Saturday, March 26, 2016

Saturday's Blurbs - Featuring Books by Mary Marvella

Day 2

List 3 of your books and the blurbs and buy marks

Protective Instincts,

They met because he had premonitions - and she was in peril ... but you will never believe why they fell in love.  Paranormal romance at its best!

After mourning the loss of her husband, Brit Roberts manages to pick up her life as a teacher for a rural Georgia High school. Things are fine until anonymous phone calls turn creepy and her life is endangered. It's not until Sam Samuels, shows up to check on her that she finds a little peace and an attraction to the handsome yet meddling security specialist.

Sam Samuels isn't just the father of one of Ms. Robert's students, he's a man with premonitions so strong, they make him ill. So when he meets his son's teacher and pain kicks in, he knows something's awry but can't put his finger on it until he interrupts an attempt to kill the teacher. Sam makes it his personal goal to protect her, only he didn't count on falling for her.

Someone wants Brit, and now Sam, dead too. Could the death of her ex husband be part of the reason? Can Brit and Sam navigate a relationship despite both of their headstrong natures?

Blurb for  Protecting Melissa

Melissa sees herself as a woman well-rid of a jerk, rather than as a widow. Since she learned the distressing news that her philandering husband swindled her neighbors and friends before an irate husband killed him in bed with his wife, she figures nothing can shock her. Right! She wants a quiet world, a safe world where she can teach and never think about the problems her husband caused.

Gabe has a lot to make up for, since he left his son and wife stateside while he served as a career Marine. In his defense, she had insisted she wanted to stay near her parents instead of traveling all over the world.  Time and distance worked their magic, and he and his wife drifted apart, just as he and his son did. The years he nursed her and tried to be a better father weren't enough to make up for not being there for her when she learned she had cancer.

Of all the things Melissa would have expected, seeing her old crush standing in her classroom door hadn't made the list. Having him hang around and flirt outrageously would have been wonderful when she trailed around him and her brother.  Now it didn't make her happy. 

Gabe's need to protect his best friend's baby  sister kicks in when they leave a high school basketball game to find someone has slashed the tires on her vintage Mustang.  Emails sending photos of her nude or looking way too sexy scare her so much he knows he can't leave her until he finds who is responsible and who wants to harm her.  

Cheerleader Dad

A sweet contemporary romance reminiscent of the Parent Trap movies. Single parents raising eleven year old daughters must try to resist the ploys their children use to push them together as well as the growing attraction that sparks between
You will laugh a lot and maybe cry a little!

Friday, March 25, 2016

Friday - Who She Was Before featuring Mary Marvella #MFRWauthor

Anyone who comments and leaves an email address will get a coupon for a free copy of Forever Love, a paranormal novella.,

Day 1

1. What were you in your life before you became a writer? Did this influence your writing?
Long story. I was a storyteller as a kid. I made up games and stories to entertain my friends. I read six or more books a week, so I didn't write stories. College and then teaching took up a lot of my time, so I didn't read or write unless it was for work or night classes. I started making up stories for my daughter when she reached four and we ran out of books to read or I needed to make a point with a story.  When I retired I began writing stories my grandmama told me, Then I found romance novels.

2 Are you genre specific or general? Why? I don't mean genres like romance, mystery, fantasy etc. There are many subgenres of the above.
 I write the stories in my head at the time I sit down. Characters learned I would write their stories and proceeded to pester me with their stories. I published a reincarnation story because two ghosts and a young woman hijacked my imagination one night. I have two woman's fiction stories, two romantic suspense stories and a romantic comedy.  I have more stories to finish, mostly fantasy/paranormal.

3. Did your reading choices have anything to do with your choice of a genre or genres?
Not really I will read almost anything.

4. What's your latest release?
I had two releases in 2015. Protecting Melissa is a romantic suspense and book two of the Protecting series. My editor calls them erotic romance. Cheerleader Dad is my sweet romantic comedy.

5. What are you working on now?
Now I am trying to get my demon book done and publish a stripper book I finished.
I am editing an anthology in which I have a short story.

6. Where can we find you?
  You probably don't want all of these! Author/121044561311561 Follow Mary Marvella on Twitter @mmarvellab

Thursday, March 24, 2016

Thursday's Opening Scene - Seducing the Photographer #MFRWauthor #Contemporary romance #romantic comedy.

Chapter One

“Done.” Meg Blakefield closed her laptop and sank back in her chair. “Move. Friday at last.” Unlike her siblings and co-workers she refused to use the clichĂ©. And unlike most of them she had no plans for the weekend beyond revising her rules of life. Should she scrap them and come up with a new set? Her present ones hadn’t taken her to her desired place, a home with the man of her dreams. All she’d earned from following those rules was a hand full of failed relationships.
Her elbows rested on the desk. The next issue of Good Lookin’ was at the printer’s, a perfect ending for an intense week of work and a very long day. She yawned.
The office door opened. One of her brothers stepped inside. “Good. You’re still here.”
She looked up. “You must be seeing things.”
“I need a favor.”
“Sure.” She wanted to bite her tongue a moment too late. She’d just mangled one of her rules/ Know what you’re agreeing to before you commit to do a favor or you’ll find yourself in trouble.
“Thanks. You can pick up Steve Martin at the airport tonight. His flight arrives around nine.”
“Wait a minute.” Meg’s shoulder muscles tensed. Once more she had leaped into a steaming cauldron. She stared at her brother. What did his cat in the cream smile mean? Was this some kind of sick joke? “You want me to do what?”
“Go to the airport. Meet Steve’s plane. Drive him home. He spoke each word is though he spoke to a child.
Meg’s emotions tumbled over each other like stones in a polishing tumbler. “I’m the last person he would want to see. Remember the scene I created three weeks ago.” Though she hadn’t shouted her accusations the words had flowed through the open office door. She would never forget Steve’s reaction. First an angry denial. Then he’d laughed and declared he would do no more photo shoots for Good Lookin’. His voice had boomed.
“Come on. Steve doesn’t hold grudges. Kiss and make up. He would enjoy that.”
“Right.” Meg glared at her brother. She couldn’t tell him or anyone about her first meeting with the photographer.
He’s the one. Her body had taken fire the moment their hands had touched. She knew she’d been taken by the Blakefield curse.
Every time he came near or when there was a casual touch her body reacted and the voice in her head repeated those fatal words. She blushed. His knowing green eyes showed he knew about the strong attraction. He always smiled and made a teasing remark. Though she’d become adept at avoiding him her feelings hadn’t changed.
Mark laughed. “Pick him up.”
“Remember how he reacted when I accused him of leaking the details of my exclusive interview to that witch editor of Beauty Spot.
Mark chuckled. “I do. He resigned. Then Allie explained how you shoot first and regret at leisure. He stayed. He looks on the incident as a joke.” Mark pressed his hands on the desk and leaned forward. “You never explained why you accused him.”
Because she hadn’t wanted to believe the man she’d been seeing was the one who had leaked the information. “She and Steve had a relationship. Believing he was the one seemed easy.”
Mark hooted. “They had a fling. The day you accused him she was a month in his past.”
“She used to be his boss. How was I to know where his loyalty lay?”
“I’ll give you that.” He straightened. “When he came to the group fulltime he cut his ties with her rag. Be a sport and do the airport run.”
“Send a limo.”
“A limo isn’t how we treat our employees. Dad’s away. Luke’s tied up. Allie’s with Greg. I’m off to check some B and Bs.”
“Maybe I have plans.”
Do you?”
“Sort of.”
He arched a brow. “No you don’t. What is your problem?”
She couldn’t tell him how every time Steve appeared she felt like a teen crushing on the school jock. “I…”
“Come on. Now that Allie’s moved you’re the closest to JFK and you drive that huge four door sedan.”
“Company policy.”
She groaned. When any staffer was out of town on assignment unless they had a ride arranged, a member of the Blakefield family played chauffer. “You win.”
“Good. Drive the sedan and don’t think about taking a limo or a taxi.”
Why was her vehicle of choice important? She closed her eyes and planned. If the plane landed at nine, she could leave the airport by nine thirty. The drive to the Hudson River village where he lived would take an hour or so. Thirty minutes later she would be home. She could avoid the temptation to jump him for that long.
“You win. I’ll go.”
Mark patted her hand. “Good girl.”
She debated barking or biting. She waved him away. “You owe me.”
He paused. “One more thing. Take the wheelchair I parked in the hall. Steve had a small accident.”
Meg went into protective mode. “How small?”
“A lot of bruises and a broken leg.”
She rolled her eyes. There went her plans for a quick pickup and delivery. She would have to accompany him into the apartment. She thought about throwing something but the only thing on her ultra neat desk were her laptop, the phone and a stack of page proofs. She ran to the door.
“Mark, you really owe me and I’ll collect.”
The closing elevator door was her answer.
Steve Morgan. A sound midway between a sigh and a groan escaped. She was in trouble. He was hot. So was he but his frequent teasing remarks made her bristle. His green eyes hinted promises he would keep for a time. She wanted to believe he would commit forever but she’d heard volumes about his short attention span. According to her sister he’d dated and discarded at least four women in the three months he’d been a Good Magazine Group employer.
You don’t want an affair. Rule number two. Any man you consider must want a lifetime commitment. No matter how many stars she wished upon Steve wasn’t that man. She laughed. Saying yes to what hadn’t been and what would never be offered was foolish.
With her laptop in hand she stepped into the hall. Mark hadn’t been joking. There was a wheelchair in the hall. She pushed the chair to the elevator and rode to the basement parking garage. After putting the chair in the trunk she drove to her apartment and made an omelet for dinner. As she ate she checked the arrival time of Steve’s flight.
She was going to kill her brother. Around nine was really nine forty-five. By the time she delivered Steve she wouldn’t have the energy to drive back here.
Meg paced around the living room. Her plans had to be revised. She reached for the phone. She would camp in her sister’s fiancĂ©’s apartment. In the morning she could visit Peek-A-Boo boutique, check the lingerie and speak to the owner about the possibility of a magazine spread for the February edition of Good Lookin’. What she’d seen of the bras and panties Allie had purchased had turned her thoughts in that direction.
She dialed Greg’s apartment. The answering machine invited her to leave a message. She received the same response on Allie’s cell and left the same words on both. “Meg here.  I need a place to crash for tonight. Bringing Steve home from the airport. Be there between ten and midnight.”
Meg rolled her shoulders. The tight muscles uncoiled. She had a plan to minimize the time spent with Steve. Was that what she wanted? No, but it was the only way to keep her current rules of life.

Wednesday, March 23, 2016

Wednesday's Writer's Tip - More on Style #MFWRauthor #Writing

A writer's style is something developed over time and there are many components to how this develops. Have you ever read a story by an author who has switched from one genre to another yet you know that particular writer is the author. That is style. So let's look at some of the elements that make up the style. There will be more than one Wednesday looking at this. Another thing about style is the editor and sometimes their style or the style of the puclishing house seems to be the style not the authors. I once judged a contest where three of the books were from the same publishing house and had the same editor. Frankly I was unable to find the writer's style in these books. They all sounded the same. Yes, the stories were different and the characters well developed but the flow of the stories remained the same.

Style is individuality. Each writer has a particular way of using language. Much depends on where they were born, where they learned the language and even their choice of careers.

Write in the way that's natural to you. This can be how you choose to do your stories as in point of view of the characters. Some people are comfortable writing in first person. Others want to use a selective third person. There are writers who like to dip into each characters head. Finding the way that's natural to you may take some work. For me third person is the most ocmfortable. Though I've done a book or more in first person those books were a struggle.

When writing what I call the rough draft, let the words flow as they will. A rhythm will develop but of course the choice of words will change when revising the story. Don't stop the flow but push forward. When you stop to find a different word you have slipped from writing into revision. I know there are writers who polish each passage before moving on to the next. Simce this works for them they have probably amstered their style. When you're starting out it's all right to write the draft only the author can love.

Style is using wrords to convey meaning. Being clear as to what you mean to let the reader know needs to be clear and concise. The effectiveness of the writing goes back to the writer's commitment to the project. So once you've mastered that rough draft and want to throw up your hands and scream, remember in revising you can get rid of all those repeated words, the passive sentences, the bitsof dialogue that any of the characters could have said. As you keep writing and working you will learn your style.

Tuesday, March 22, 2016

Tuesday's Inspiration - Inspired by Anne Lamott - Writing Groups #MFRWauthor #Writing

In Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott the author speaks about writer's groups. There are many kinds of these groups, especially in these days of the internet. A writer can go on line and find any number of these groups. Some are concerned with craft and some with the business aspects of writing. There are also groups where one meets face to face. Some are chapters of larger national groups, some are groups sponsered by publishers, some are what is known as critique groups.

As a writer, I belong to many groups and from the ones that are on line I've learned much about promotion and also of writing. Sometimes it's just the support of other authors that's important. I also belong to one national group and belong to a chapter of this group. Here is where learning and support are very much given. I also belong to a critique group that has been in existance sinde somewhere around 1990. The members change since people move, give up writing, become successful and have to put their efforts into other areas. There are also online critique groups where pages are shared between the members. Some are groups some are what's called partners.

I really believe these groups are important to a beginning writer and also to writers who are in it for the long haul. Speaking or emailing other writers can be a boost for the ego, can keep you writing when you think you can't continue. So look for the various kinds of writer's groups and fine the ones who are a fit. The fit doesn't always work but don't give up. Just keep looking and you'll find the one that offers support, critiques and above all support. Writing is a lonely business.

Monday, March 21, 2016

Meandering On Monday with Janet Lane Walters #MFRWauthor #Poetry #Reviews #Waiting

Meander 1 - Poem _Whispers Out Of Yesterday

Whispers Out of Yesterday

Your voice -- a whisper out of yesterday
Raises the haird of my mind. Brings haunted
Thoughts of vapoured times I had cast away --
Memories of secrets now unwanted
Siren echoes bait my mind -- Reverberate
In eerie stirrings -- Animate reverie
Of a different fate. Feelings dissipate,
Shimmer on the wind, Create disharmony
Vast weight of shadows -- mind ghosts dissolve and
Darkness oozes from hidden corners
Become diminishing phantoms. No command
Of sometime past can call them forth anew.
Now I lay your voice to rest. A lullaby
Softly sighs for a love that had to die.

Meander 2 - Reviews - Lately I've been reviewing or at least rating books I've been reading. There are things I won't do. I won't give a glowing 5 to a book that was good but not mind-blowing. I also won't ever go below a 3. Let's face it, there are some books that aren't good, at least to me. Sometimes it's the plot that makes me wonder why I'm reading this book. Sometimes it's the characters that stop me from enjoying what is a great plot. Sometimes it's the writer's style that keeps me from enjoyment. Sometimes I may be the only person reading this book who doesn't see why this is a wonderful book. To me a 5 book is one that makes me thing, Just one more chapter until suddenly I reach the end of the book and I sit in wonder. A 4 book is a good one where I want to read to the ending but I can put the book down after reading a chapter and move to other things. A 3 book is one with promise that didn't quite make the cut. There are some people who are upset when their book receives a 4 because this lowers their overall rating. One must remember with books anyone who reads the story is giving a personal thought on the story.

Meander 3 - Writing - I've started on a special project. Sometimes it goes fast and other times slow. There is much I need to learn to write this book so there are blanks. Not really blanks but notes for research about things I either don't know or that happened so long ago that I truly don't remember. As far as my other works The At First sight series is completely re-written. There are two of these books to be typed in and that will happen. This month, or actually from the end of February ahs seen four stories see the light of day. Wizards of Fyre, Seducing the Chef, Seducing the Photographer and Seducing the Innkeeper is up for pre-order. I'll be doing the bits about Seducing the Doctor this weekend.

Sunday, March 20, 2016

Sunday's Book - Seducing the Photographer by Janet Lane Walters #Contemporary romance #romanticcomedy

Meg is sure she’s made a mistake when she agrees to pick up and Injured Steve, the magazine group’s photographer from the airport. The first moment she saw him, the Blakefield Curse took effect. She fell in love and she was a forever woman. He wasn’t. Spending time with him over the weekend only cements her feelings. She has rules of life and she breaks everyone of them even the new ones she added that weekend.

Steve has been intrigued by Meg and he enjoys her blushes. He’s found ways to raise them but something more is happening here. When she leaves abruptly, he wants to track her down but his broken leg makes pursuit difficult. Now he must find a way to win her over and that takes some time and clever moves. 

Saturday, March 19, 2016

Saturday's Blurbs - featuring books by Heather Greenis #MFRWauthor #paranormal

The Natasha Saga -  Empowerment shatters traditions and lives. Greed and pride have devastating consequences. Sacrifices must be made. Written on multiple levels, the saga deals with hope, relationships, and giving, set against a background of conflicting values.
Through a series of dreams, modern day couple Keeghan and William follow the triumphs and tragedies of multiple generations of the Donovan family. A chance encounter changes Natasha’s life, forever. In her diary, Natasha writes of her dream, and her hope to escape a horrid dictated future.
Will Natasha's legacy survive an uncertain future?

Natasha’s Dream -   Walking the ocean front near their property, Keeghan and Will find a bottle containing a portrait of a royal family dated in the 19th century. This inspires an ongoing dream. Princess Natasha grew up knowing her parents wanted another boy, not a daughter. Raised in a sheltered environment, her only friends were her brothers and Nanny. An innocent swim brings a chance encounter, where she discovers a different life exists beyond the walls of the castle. Underprivileged children become her salvation and she dreams of a better life, a normal life. Conflicted, Natasha must risking hurting her family to help them. Told the story is important to her, Keeghan is determined to learn why it dominates her subconscious.

Natasha’s Diary - Keeghan’s subconscious has played tricks on her in the past, but she’s normally able to control the outcome of her dreams. No such luck with this story. The mystery magnifies when her husband William discovers something else by the eroding sea wall. Something that piques their curiosity even further. Coincidence?

Natasha’s Hope - Convinced her dream is based on something historic, modern day couple William and Keeghan fly to Kassima to search through university archives. With hopes that the orphanage still exists, seeing the building would make the trip perfect. Keegan’s dream continues. Hope and Stewart move into the orphanage. Having read the diary, Hope desperately wants the world to evolve according to her dreams. Mother Nature rears her ugly side, leaving Hope powerless as the people she loves put their lives in jeopardy. Will her family survive? Digging deep, she must find an inner strength. She risks her own life, ignoring her doctor’s warning, attempting to have a family. Is there a future for the Donovans?

Natasha’s Legacy -  The future of the Venderkemp orphanage is still in question. Only one family member is interested in carrying on the family business. Does that soft spoken, introvert have the emotional strength needed to manage the orphanage? Another tragedy and a difficult decision pulls the family together, tightening the family bond. Hope faces internal battles as conflicting values spin against her hopes and dreams.
Keeghan and Will discover more than they dreamed possible, including the identity of their narrator, Alexander.

Friday, March 18, 2016

Friday - Who She Was Before - Heather Greenis #MRWAauthor #BooksWeLove

Day 1

1.    What were you in your life before you became a writer? Did this influence your writing?

2.    I spent 18 years in the financial serves industry. My clients ranged in every way possible. I always enjoyed getting to know them, and encouraged clients to talk about their backgrounds and their professions. Both my plot and the characters were influenced by the diversity of these clients.

2 Are you genre specific or general? Why? I don't mean genres like romance, mystery, fantasy etc. There are many subgenres of the above.

I have only published The Natasha Saga. I find it difficult to classify the saga into a genre but my hope is to expand my mind and allow my imagination to get creative with future projects.

3. Did your reading choices have anything to do with your choice of a genre or genres?

Not really. I enjoy a variety of topics depending on my mood. A love a good drama but also enjoy reading something light and comical. Something silly. I enjoy a thriller, but stay clear of horror.

4. What's your latest release?

The Natasha Saga - It is a four-part continuing story, each ending with a cliff hanger. All four have launched so a reader will not be caught having to wait.
The saga follows two stories. Modern day Keeghan and William as well as the characters within Keeghan’s dream. The dream has some surprising plot twists and hopefully touches a reader’s emotions, making them think.

5. What are you working on now?
I’m working on a plot where a couple takes the law into their own hands. Canadian, guns are not involved. No shootouts.

6. Where can we find you?

Thursday, March 17, 2016

Thursday's Opening Scene - Featuring Dragons of Fyre by Janet Lane Walters #MFRWauthor #Fantasy # romance

Chapter One

Drakon halted his horse at the end of the pass and stared at the collection of houses and the fields beyond. Last night he and his companion had ridden well past moonrise so they could reach the village this morning. Fall had arrived. Reds, yellows, and oranges, blazed across the hills.

Why had this village remained untouched? Ten years ago, the lord of Sea Cliff had attacked High Peaks and ravaged the villages closest to the tower. Of the three settlements sworn to High Peaks, only this one remained. The answer had to be treachery. Drakon wondered if he would learn the names of the traitors.

*You will not,* the Old One said. *They are dead.*

Drakon tightened his hold on the reins. Every time the ancient yellow dragon spoke to him, he felt warmth and delight. Years ago, his inability to speak to the dragons had doomed him to ten years as a slave.* I wish they were alive so I could see to their punishment. Their treason made me Lagon’s prisoner, and a thing to be sold to the priestesses.*

*Better a slave than living under the evil one’s control the way the heirs of the other towers do.*

A year had passed since Drakon’s escape from the temple of Fyre. Though he had sworn to see the man dead, the lord of Sea Cliff Tower remained alive. A need for vengeance invaded Drakon’s thoughts. His family, his near kin, and innocent villagers, had been slaughtered on that dreadful day.

*Patience,* the Old One said.
Behold the lush growth of the fields.” His companion drew his steed to Drakon’s side. “Look at the height and fullness of the fyrethorns. The harvest will be abundant.” He raked his fingers through his gray-tinged brown hair.

Drakon shook his head. “I see, but do we need all this for one dragon?”

Radlan shrugged. “Who are we to cry about good fortune? There are few dragons in the land. From what I have heard there are five pair at Sea Cliff, and none at the other three towers.”

Drakon’s jaw clenched. His desire for revenge flared anew. If only there was a way to defeat Lagon and free the High Peaks dragons.

*Have faith. There will be more dragons at our tower.*

Some of Drakon’s tension ebbed. *First patience and now faith. I’ll try. Before I gain those virtues, there’s a harvest to be completed.* He prodded the steed with his heels and the horse trotted down the trail into the village.

As Drakon dismounted, the headman bustled across the commons with a hand extended in welcome. “My lord.”

Drakon straightened. Would he ever become used to being named as the lord of High Peaks Tower. “Just Drakon. Am I in time to help with the harvest?”

The gray-haired man nodded. “The men have started in the fields and the crew for the fyrethorns has just assembled.”

Drakon pulled on a pair of heavy leather gloves, grabbed a sack and strode to the row of fyrethorn bushes. Radlan had been right about the size of the harvest. A wry smile crossed Drakon’s face. The increased yield was due to the seeds he’d brought from the temple, the only good thing to come from his stay as a stud in the harras.

A half dozen young women and four young men joined him. Drakon glanced at his fellow workers. One young woman flipped her glossy ebony hair over her shoulder. He swallowed. Her beauty made him wish for what was impossible.

Of the men, three were his age. The one with black hair was older. He glared at Drakon and drew the beauty away. Drakon frowned. Why did the man dislike him when they had never met?

He shrugged off the stares of the others and moved along the hedgerow pulling handfuls of the long, blood red thorns. As he removed them bunches of crimson berries were exposed. The young women pulled the clusters and dropped them in baskets.

At day’s end, Drakon stared at the sacks of thorns and berries he helped carry to the storeroom. A bountiful harvest, indeed. He walked to where Radlan and the headman stood. “We’ll need more than two carts to carry all the fyrethorn products to the tower.”

The older men laughed. Radlan clasped Drakon’s shoulder. “We’ll take just one load of thorns and berries. The other cart will carry grain and vegetables for the winter. Before the storms, we’ll return for the rest and for flour ground from the grain.” Radlan led the way to the harvest feast.

“Do you think the other villages will be rebuilt?” Drakon asked.

Radlan nodded. “There’s talk of a division in a year or two. The people sworn to High Peaks Tower are still recovering from the invasion. Forget your questions and enjoy yourself.” The older man winked. “I’ve noticed several of the young women watching you.”

Drakon stiffened. If they knew what had happened to him ten years ago, they would avoid him. He crammed those memories away. Radlan had suggested keeping the days he’d spent as a slave a secret. Drakon wished he could talk to someone about his treatment in the Temple of Fyre.

He glanced at the gathered people. Though most of the older men and women wore what they had for the harvest, some of the younger women had changed into bright colored skirts and blouses.

Aromas of cooking meats rose from a pot where a steer had cooked all day. Other meats hung on hooks over the coals. Drakon lifted a large wooden trencher and took some of the steer and a chicken leg.  His stomach rumbled as he moved to a long table where kettles of cooked vegetables, grains, and bowls of greens, and fruit, were displayed.

He grabbed a mug of ale and looked for a place to sit. Beneath a large oak tree, he noticed a group of young people. One of them waved. “Lord Drakon, come and eat with us. We’re glad you returned to the tower.”

As Drakon started toward the group the young woman he’d noticed earlier stepped in front of him. “Tiron, leave him alone. I’m claiming him.”

Drakon swallowed. One side of her blouse had slid from her shoulder and nearly exposed her breast. Would she issue commands he would have to obey? The sweet scent of her perfume brought memories of the priestesses at the temple. He was torn between following her and joining the larger group.

She touched his arm. “Come with me. There is much I want from you.”

Her voice held a demanding tone that seemed familiar. He walked beside her.

“Lord Drakon, when will there be dragons at the tower?” someone called.
Drakon couldn’t spot who had shouted. “There is one in the cavern now. The Old One said there soon would be more.”

“We heard you couldn’t speak to them.”

“True in part.” Drakon smiled. “I do not need the tea when I speak to the Old One.”

The young woman tugged on Drakon’s arm. “Forget those fools. Come with me.” She stepped closer. “Our kin ties are the most distant of any girl’s in the village. I’m destined to be your wife.”

Drakon gulped a breath. Like a vise, uneasiness gripped his chest. Her cloying perfume brought flashes from the past he struggled to forget. She reeked of desire the way the priestesses had. “Just who are you?”


She led him to a sheltered place in the grove of hardwoods on the outskirts of the village. The leaves rioted with colors from pale yellow to russet. Drakon halted and nearly spilled the ale when the young man who had glared at him during the harvest appeared.

“Bejan, I’ve brought Drakon so you could speak to him about the dragons.”

“I have nothing to say to someone who was a slave.” Bejan turned and walked away.

How had he known? Drakon had told no one. Had Radlan let the secret slip? Or had Lagon spread the story of how he had sold Drakon?

“You’ll lose out on a chance to be a speaker, but I won’t.” Bekla sat on the ground and arranged her skirts so one of her thighs was partly bared. “Drakon, come closer. Though he’s my brother, he’s a boor.”

Drakon sat on a log at arms distance from her. He gulped some ale and began to eat. “What do you want to know?”

She leaned forward and her blouse gaped to expose her full breasts. “I want to be the wife of a dragon speaker. You are the only one at High Peaks. I want to ride with you when the dragons rise to mate.”

Drakon put the trencher on the ground. “The yellow does not mate. There are no reds or blues in the cavern.”

She edged closer and brushed her hand over his thigh. “A dragon rises here.” She licked her lower lip. “Come to my aunt’s house at moonrise.”

His stomach clenched. She commanded just as the priestesses had. This time there was a choice. He had escaped from the harras. He didn’t have to obey her. Though he felt ill, he rose. “Don’t wait for me.” As he strode away he realized he had taken the first step toward freedom from the conditioning. Never again would he be trapped by a woman’s demands. A dull headache began.

When he reached the commons, he looked for Radlan but didn’t see the older man. Drakon stopped and talked to several of the villagers. Though he searched for Tiron and the other young people they seemed to have vanished. Finally, Drakon slipped into the headman’s house. He sat on one of the beds in the guest room and rubbed his aching head. At least the pain wasn’t as acute as when he’d drunk the berry tea, or when the priestesses had used thorns as a punishment. Strains of music and the buzz of voices filtered through the shuttered windows. He had no desire to tale part in the merriment.
When Drakon woke the sun had just risen. He broke his fast with food left from the feast and then joined the villagers in loading the wagons. After he and Radlan mounted their horses, they led the men who drove the wagons up the slope to the trail leading to the tower.

During the two day trip, Drakon’s thoughts drifted to his escape from the priestesses. How fortunate he’d been to have been chosen as one of the studs to travel with the women who sought a rebellions acolyte and the stone seeker who had aided her escape. The man had provided a waterskin and torches to light the way through the dark passage. As Drakon had hurried along the tunnel, earthquakes caused rocks to fall. He had burst into the open moments before the tunnel collapsed. 

What caused the quakes? Perhaps he would never know.

*You are finally home.*

The voice of the Old One broke into Drakon’s reverie. *I am, and we have brought a cart full of thorns and berries and left as much, or more, behind.* He smiled. Each time he spoke with the yellow, pride filled his chest. He wasn’t the misfit he’d been named by his father and brothers. Unlike them, he needed none of the berry tea for the speaker’s path to open.

*As was in the old days. When the carts are unloaded, come to the cavern.*

Drakon joined the men unloading the wagons. Once this chore was finished, Radlan, Sophronia’s husband helped prepare the Old One’s meal and wheeled the barrow across the forecourt to the cavern.

As he entered the vast hollowed space, he wondered how the area had been made. Was it a natural phenomena, or had magic been employed?”

*Part of each. The wizard friend of the dragons aided their escape and carved the mountain to make a refuge for them.*

The crystal pillars set about the cavern rose from floor to dome. The bright light momentarily blinded Drakon. The colors reminded him of the fyrestones the priestesses had used in their rituals. Side chambers, some dark, and one cold enough to store meat, lined the left hand wall. Soft sand covered areas of the floor. Near the feeding trough and the area around the warm pool was rock. A pair of streams, one hot and the other cold, united to flow over a waterfall. Beside the waterfall was a wide ledge. The water left the pool through a drainage hole on the far side.

Drakon put the meat, mixed with thorns and berries, into one of the stone troughs. He sat on the sand beside the Old One’s wallow.

The yellow dragon lowered his head so Drakon could scratch the leathery skin between his eyes. *Was the trip a pleasant one?*

Drakon wrapped his arms around his bent knees. *The harvest was plentiful and the food at the feast delicious.*

*I sense worry in your thoughts.*

*There was a young woman named Bekla. She tried to seduce me.* He closed his eyes. *I can’t do what she wants. My memories of the temple are too strong and she made me think of the priestesses.*

*Those memories will fade.*

*It’s been a year and they’re still strong.*

*And longer was needed to set the conditioning.* The Old One moved to the trough and ate. *Go to your dinner. Sofona cooked all day preparing for your homecoming. The men from the village will leave soon.*

Drakon patted the dragon’s side. *I’ll come tomorrow.* He left the cavern and walked to the tower. Inside the large kitchen the men from the village lifted packs of food Sofona had prepared for their journey.

When they were gone, Sofona sank on a bench. A few strands of gray wove through her brown hair. “I’m glad I don’t have to feed a large crew every day. There’s a plate for you in the warming oven. Where have you been?”

“With the Old One. He wanted to know about the harvest. I also took him a feeding.”

Sofona laughed. “I doubt he needed one. He went out this morning and returned with a wild boar. I took a ham and some of the meat for us. He devoured the rest.”

Drakon ate a bite of the pork and savored the flavor. He smiled fondly at the Radlan man and Sofona who had become his family.

Wednesday, March 16, 2016

Wednesday's Writer's Tip - Style #MFRWauthor

Every writer develops a style that is unique to them. This part of writing can't be taught. So how does this happen? We all have times when we can tell who wrote a particular story without looking at the name on the cover. This can and does happen. I've had people tell me that they knew I wrote a particular story. Or during a critique session when I'm writing in a different genre, they can tell the story is mine.  This doesn't happen over night but the more you write, the more your style becomes clear. When I look back on early stories and I do mean early, I can see hints of my style but in those stories, it's crude. How many books did this take, you might ask? The answer is a gradual progression as more and more stories are written.

English can be taught. How to spell can be taught. But that rhythm you inject into your stories can't be taught. One way to develop style is through your choice of words. Overwriting as in using too many words to get the meaning you want to show can muddy the waters and the style.

Say you're my student and I look at your work and re-write every sentence. This is taking your style away. We all look at or hear parts of stories and want to rewrite them. If there are problems, showing the writer how to change this to make sense can be of value.

As your teacher, I could show you how to imitate the style of another writer but it would be wooden. I remember very early in my career before I was published attempting to imitate the writers I really enjoyed. Didn't work. The prose was wooden and the story boring.

There are the styles that are out of style. Would you try to imitate Charles Dickens or Jane Austin. Your stories wouldn't work in today's world. What reader wants to read paragraphs and paragraphs of description without getting to the gist of the story?

So instead of using any of these techniques, write and write and your style will develop. There will be more hints next week.

Tuesday, March 15, 2016

Tuesday's Inspiration - Talking to People in the Know #MFRWauthor

Anne Lamott in Bird by Bird has an essay about calling people who know things. I've done this a number of times and probably should have done more. I did spend a lot of time talking to those who know things I need for my books.

Many of my books concern doctors and nurses. Since I worked in hospitals and am married to a doctor I've found this easy. I once had a doctor sit down and draw diagrams for where a person should be hit on the head to produce the kind of amnesia I wanted one of the characters to have and how to trigger her memories in time to help the heroine.

Some of my calls to experts have resulted in amusing stories. I was writing one of my mysteries and needed to know when the funeral could be held on a murdered victim. The funer played a large role in the story. My daughter had a friend who was a cop. I used his cell number and left a message. This young man had been a many times visitor at our house so I knew he would call back. He did. I'll try to reproduce the conversation.

Mike _ Ma, is there a problem?
Me - I just murdered this woman and I want to know how long you'll keepthe body before the funeral.
Quick and to the point.
Mike - No, No. She didn't. She's a writer. This is a mystery, Ma?
Me. Yes.
Then he gave me the information I needed. I will laugh about this forever.

So when you need facts for the story you're writing and you don't know the answer, call, visit or email the people you think might have the answer. Just don't forget to tell them you're writing fiction.

Monday, March 14, 2016

Meandering On Monday with Janet Lane Walters #MFRWauthor #poetry

Meander 1 - Poem

Statue of Liberty

An icon, she stands, torch held high
On her island pedistal.
Madonna America stared to sea.
Metal eyes unblinking.
Tarnished by weatyer, by vandals
By bird, salt ocean spray.
Curious crowds on boats passing by
Call to her eagerly, offer their dreams.
She stands and she gazes with unseeing eyes
A statue, a symbol - blind eyes and deaf ears.
Madonna America, what do you mean?

Meander 2 - Meeting - A good meeting of the chapter today. Talked about the coming retreat and what will be done. Many will bring their laptops and type away. I will bring clipboard and pens and paper. Maybe I'll be on a revision segment. The time is a month away. Been thinking about some of the members and their expectations. Many are writing for money. Perhaps one or more will succeed and perpahs none will. I'm in this for the long haul. Not making much money but enjoying what I do. If you really like what you're doing you will do it.

Meander 3 - Finally finished the sixth of the At First Sight stories - rewriting. I am nearly finished typing four and now that Jude has finished her paperwork that hopefully will bring good to the company, I can start sending the two more that will be finished to her. Must let Jasmin know about the covers. A new bit I'm into the second week and that's using Saturday and Sunday for blog posts and also for promotion. Ugh. Don't like that. Am also working on the missing pages of Kathy's story. Some sounds good, some rough.

Sunday, March 13, 2016

Sunday's Book - Dragons of Fyre - Islands of Fyre Book 2 #MFRWauthor #fantasyromance

Free for a limited time.

After escaping from the temple of Fyre, Drakon returns to his home to find only two people and a yellow dragon. He and the Old One learn as much as they can about the land at present. The lord of Sea Cliff Tower has gathered the remaining dragons at his keep. On learning the High Peaks Tower’s red dragon is with egg they arrange her escape and rescue her eggs. Now they must find a way to defeat their enemy and return the dragons to the other towers.

Arana, sold by the temple priestesses to the slavers is bought by the lord of High Tower and made a part of the family. Before they are able to adopt her the lord of Sea Cliff Tower invades and destroys the family, taking her and her friend prisoner. Drakon is sold. Arana because she can speak to the dragons is made a slave care-giver. She saves a green egg and raises the green dragon. After helping the High Peaks Tower’s red dragon escape she is in danger and must find a way to escape. Her attempt to ride the green dragon succeeds and she arrives injured and ill. Once she recovers she and Drakon attempt to find a way to rescue the other dragons of Fyre.

Saturday, March 12, 2016

Saturday's Blurbs - Books by Frank Talaber #MFRWauthor #paranormal #romance

Raven's Lament

What if there really was a native prince trapped inside the Golden Spruce tree on Haida Gwaii and it was cut down. Releasing the prince and the reason he was trapped inside, Raven. What if Raven woke up and looked at the world it is today and didn't like it one bit and tried to change it back to the way it was? Welcome to reporter Brook's day. So how do you stop a God from changing the world? You hire a Shaman, who is just a bit nuttier than most fruitcake salads. Oh, this is beginning to sound like trouble, big time trouble. Especially when Raven has captured the woman Brook has fallen in love with.
Available at Indigo and Chapter's in paperback
Ebook at Amazon and Books We Love

 Raven's Lament (By Books We Love Publishers)

Shaman's Lure

Vancouver's mayor is found brutally slain in Stanley Park beside the memorial to Pauline Johnson. His family is missing and no clues to the disappearance. Carol's first big case as a police detective. In the middle of the night a shaman show's up, spouting that the clues are there, you just have to open your eyes and your viewpoint and you can see them. Unfortunately he also vanishes. Carol has to now to prove he exists, along with finding the family before the city erupts in gang violence. Why you ask?
Just so happens that there's a bar in Stanley Park where if you get drunk enough, spirits take over your body and use it for whatever they want until you sober up. One is a Hell's Angel back for revenge, and another is a native witchy succubus, desperate to come back to life.
Carol is beginning to think wrestling alligators and skydiving with your hands tied behind your back is suddenly a nice cushy career instead.

Available Ebook only at this point through

Shuttered Seduction
What happens when the enemy falls in love with you? And you with them?
Heck, you take them bungee jumping, hiking in the Rockies, and cross dressing, of course.
So can the fire cracker redhead take down the bad boy? Will his dark past destroy them or worse does her quick temper push him away like every other man that's entered her life?

 Frank Talaber
Writer by soul. Karma the seed. Words born within.
Paper the medium. Pen the muse. Novels the fire.

Friday, March 11, 2016

Friday - Who He Was Before featuring Frank Talaber #MFRWauthor

Day one.
Question One.
Oddly enough I began to work on cars and became a auto technician and now own and run a auto repair shop. I had taken a creative writing course in high school that woke up my writing abilities and kept a diary, that sometimes was filled with stories or story ideas. The first day of the course we sat down and got handed our text book. Which was a blank, lined notebook. I immediately asked, "but it's blank?" "Yes, your job was to fill it." We had to develop writing flow. The first few days was brutal and I could barely fill a paragraph. But my the end of the course I was putting down pages of stories sifting through my head. Somehow inside I knew I was a writer by soul. 
If you go to my website you'll see my personal statement. 
Writer by soul. The words born within. Karma the seed. Paper the medium. Pen the muse. Novels the fire.
What really influenced my writing abilities and creative juices, believe it or not, were comic books and my first job as a kid as a paper delivery boy. All of the crazy story ideas and the vivid art of the comic books, struck a chord inside and often I'd be slinging my papers and my head was filled with some wild writing thought. The papers also helped with being able to buy comics at the time, as I was the oldest of seven and didn't have a father in my life to guide me. So we were pretty poor and I have to be a father figure. 

Question Two.
Genre specific. Nope not me. I've written everything from Romance, to Science Fiction to Erotica to Comedy. Science Fiction and Urban Fantasy are my two favorite genres. In Urban Fantasy I love mixing native folklore with modern day life. Similiar to Charles De Lint's novels. Living on the West Coast of Canada in BC, there's a lot of native oral stories floating about and I've involved some of those in two of my published novels, Raven's Lament and Shaman's Lure, both published. 

Question Three
I read some Urban Fantasy, Like Charles De Lint, Robert E. Howard, Edger Rice Burroughs and Alan Burt Akers. But also like to read a lot of non fiction and Science Fiction. While I've read some romance as well, but find the formula to restrictive. Boy meets girl, boy loses girl and somehow they get back together, happy ending and lots of children. Well okay the  kids come in the sequel titled, Me, my lovely wife and two point five kids. With book three being the mortgage payments, cat, dog and me.

Question Four
My newest release is Shuttered Seduction, a modern day romance, that I'd written a long time ago and realized that I had to rethink entire writing sections on the photography industry and digital cameras had revolutionized everything. It's about a successful woman Julia-Rae, that runs her own fashion magazine. While doing a photo shoot in Peru, at Macchu Picchu, she meets this handsome crazy man that sweeps her off his feet. Literally, especially when he later takes her bungee jumping. Although she does get her revenge by taking him to a cross dressing party. Only problem is that his magazine empire is crumbling and he is out to seduce her and take over her business. Both have pasts that keep each other from getting close and threatens to break them up and after Julia-Rae finds out what he's after they do. Do they get back together? Well, ask a grizzly bear at Lake Louise that question at the end and read the book. No spoilers here.


Question 5

Currently I'm working on two novel projects. One is a three book Science Fiction Series titled "Seeds Of Ascension". The premise being that our planet is being kept in isolation until we pass a series of tests to prove we're worthy of joining the rest of the races in the universe. Roger believes he's always had a guardian angel looking out for him, well that angel is a Pliedian called Sherida. Roger discovers one day that there is a chunk of metal in him as he tries to go through a metal detector on his honeymoon. Only it wasn't there earlier and when he talks to his best friends, Theodore and Fred, they discover the same thing has happened to them as well. When put beside each other the parts merge and they have to assemble all the parts. Sherida is almost killed and realizes that she is being hunted and has to cut herself off from the homeworld in order to continue the Ascension process.  

My other novel is "Thunderbird's Wake" it is the third novel in a series involving the crazy shaman named Charlie Stillwaters. He rigs it up so that he becomes a native elder at a federal jail. The former elder was murdered because a native legend called Thunderbird is believed to be in one of the prisoners bodies and Thunderbird is beginning to awake after being put into slumber by beings called the Wasgo. Thunderbird used to hunt these beings and they'll do anything to make sure the powerful native legend doesn't reawaken. Charlie calls in the help of his former detective partner, Carol, who is your average person, that doesn't believe in native legends or magic. Only she ends up aiding a native spirit in order to avenge her mother's killer.

Question 6

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