Friday, August 30, 2013

Friday's How She Does It with Geeta Kakade


We all know there are six elements of fiction. Who, What, When, Where, Why and How. I believe the first five lead to the sixth which for me is plot. What's your take on this>
1.      How do you create your characters? Do you have a specific method?

For my romances, characters spring to mind after the basic story is outlined in my mind.
For my mysteries I do characters first then plot
the stories.
 
2. Do your characters come before the plot? Do you sketch out your plot or do you let the characters develop the route to the end?
 
I sketch out the plot before I flesh out the characters.
Once I have them they do have the liberty of shaping/changing the plot as I write...often because of how their story develops.
 
3. Do you know how the story will end before you begin? In a general way or a specific one?

I know in a general way that all my romances will have the happily ever after ending...the specific ending develops as I write the
story.
 
4. Do you choose settings you know or do you have books of settings and plans of houses sitting around?

Most of my romances have been based in California where I live.  For house plans I put
together the best of all the model homes I visit.
 
5. Where do you do your research? On line or from books?
 
These days most of my research is done online.
 
6. Are you a draft writer or do you revise as you go along and why?

I'm a draft writer preferring to write the whole story to get pacing and flow right first.  I revise extensively when I'm done researching all the details I need to.
 
When I taught a 'Basics of Writing' class, I noticed the students who wanted a perfect first chapter often got stuck, then discouraged and then gave up on their
story.
So I do plot points, then write the first draft, then revise, revise, revise.
 


Thursday, August 29, 2013

Thursday's Opening Scene from Dragons of Fyre by Janet Lane Walters


The Dragons of Fyre

Chapter 1

 

            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 ridded 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 died, 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 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 flower 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 put 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?”

            “Bekla.”

            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 like 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 given provided a waterskin and torches to light the way through the dark passage.  As Drakon had hurried along the tunnel, earthquakes had caused rocks to fall.  He had burst into the open moments before the tunnel collapsed.  What had 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, he prepared 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 were 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 entered 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 man and woman who had become his family.

 

Wednesday, August 28, 2013

Wednesday's Writer's Tip - Still In The Middle


When re-reading Techniques of the Selling Writer by Dwight V Swain, I've been exploring what to do when the middle lags, sags or pulls me to a halt. This quote made me sit up and say OH, yes.

"Drop a corpse through the roof."  Does this literally mean throwing a body into the story. Then it came to me. What Mr. Swain means is throw in something that's totally unexpected. Of course, this shouldn't be completely something new to the author but a new reason to drive the story forward.

This is the moment, for me when I'm thinking the story is losing steam and suddenly a twist on one of the elements arises. I think, oh, yes, this has to go in. This is the reason to move to the next peak in the story. For me this often happens when I'm telling myself the story by writing what I call is the chapter synopsis, a guide to keep me moving forward to the end. Sometimes what happens surprises me but I know this is what will help me drive the story to the end.

What sort of things does this mean? The arrival of someone with some information the hero or heroine needs to know. The sight of something startling that drives the story toward the end. Such a moment occurred when writing Code Blue. I was chugging toward the end and the villain is waiting for the heroine. He ahs been leaving her gifts as each person she knows is killed. They seem innocent but of course they're not. Then she comes home from her three to eleven shift at the hospital to find a nightgown hanging on her porch, swaying in the breeze. Then she knows and she is terrified. That nightgown drives the story to the climax.

So don't be afraid to throw in something unexpected, something that changes innocence to danger. "Drop a corpse through the roof."

Tuesday, August 27, 2013

Tuesday's Inspiration - Elizabeth Peters - Characters


Digging further into the essay by Elizabeth Peters and this time it's characters. Plausibility of the characters in a story to be exact. Having read many stories with characters that don't quite jibe makes me wonder how to make my characters seem real to the reader.

There is the "too stupid to live heroine" and I've also read a story or two where the hero is "too stupid to live." Developing characters who seem to fit the story is a task worth doing. Just how does this work because even with a dynamite plot, if the characters fall short the story will also fail.

Reasons for a character's actions and reactions is the important bit here. If the heroine is going to enter that spooky house she'd better have a great reason to do this. If the hero is going to fight someone he'd better have a terrific reason. This can be about motivation, of course but there are other reasons characters act the way they do. Without these reasons being seen by the reader, the character falls short.

Another thing about characters is they need to match. Just what does this mean. A strong villain meets a weak hero or heroine and the reader will put the book aside. A strong hero versus a weak heroine and who really cares if she wins the man. I used to read romances where I thought no matter what the epilogue showed me a year or so later, "This marriage will never work." I've read mysteries where I knew who the bad guy was just pages into the book. This wasn't where the writer let you know up front but when they wanted you to suspect anyone but the real guy.

The books that stick to me are the ones where I can remember the characters years after having read the story and I pick it up to read again. So remember to give your character reasons for those little actions and reactions. Match your characters in desire and motivation. Make sure they aren't "too stupid to live."

Monday, August 26, 2013

Meandering On Monday with Janet Lane Walters


Meander 1 - Writer's Block. I have been accused of never having writer's block and that's probably true, except there was a time when I didn't write. Not that I couldn't but I didn't. This was the time when I returned to work as a nurse and spent hours going after two degrees one in English and one in nursing. Though some of the writing I did during the quest for a BA in English were creative, they weren't stories to charm and entice readers. There was the one in Milton done is blank verse that the teacher thought was brilliant but just didn't fit the criteria. There was also the one where I set out to show my favorite poet was also the author of some plays when the author of the play vanished at the same time the poet had a life changing event. I will admit I had a great time writing these papers and I did get good grades but they weren't stories designed to wow readers. But about Writer's Block. I may not be the world's greatest writer but there are stories to be told and I find that organizing and writing what I call a chapter synopsis keeps me on target and keeps the words coming word after word. Probably it's because I'm stubborn and that's something that's come with age. And somehow, there's another story to be told. Now I do write a lot of things when I'm putting words on paper like They make love or there is a fight scene here. I always come back to these scenes when I'm ready.

Meander 2 Book reviews. I seldom seek them. I have friends who live and die by them. I've seen people stop writing because someone trashed their story. Frankly, I really don't care what other people think of my stories. What I feel about what I've written is important to me. This is also a process of aging. So if you've felt comfortable with your story keep writing. Beginnings are usually easy, middles might mean some slogging and endings are tricky. The real point is to be happy with what you've written and not letting the story get out to an editor until you're happy with it. Then ignore the reviewers.

Meander 3 My writing. Am working on two stories Rekindled Dreams is evolving more every day. I've made changes in the ending that brings changes throughout the entire story and that's fine. When the story is done I'll be happy with it. Sometimes I envy people who punch their stories out quickly and I've been accused of this at times but my stories don't come all that fast. Depends on the length. Am also working on The Amber Chronicles and I do believe the opening story in the collection is strong. The Amber Orb sets up the other stories in the collection and also means there need to be some changes made to the four already written stories in the collection. I also need to start getting stories that were released from a former publisher ready to go to Books We Love where I do believe they will have a better life than where they were before.

Saturday, August 24, 2013

Saturday's Chapter from The Bookstore Lady by Diane Bator



The Bookstore Lady

Chapter 1

Danny

 

Danny Walker fought the urge to grab Paulina. Rather than get directly involved, he leaned against the back wall of Gerard Maddox’s home office while she swayed and clutched the arm of the chair next to her. Her face, perfectly made up, was as pale as her platinum hair. She stared at her champagne flute, apparently unable to swallow another mouthful. Considering the conversation that floated around her, he hardly blamed her.

“It was your job to dispose of her and get the money back.” Maddox sat back and flipped a slim silver pen over the backs of his fingers.

“I know.” Dunnsforth stood beside the oversized mahogany desk in Maddox’s office, his face ashen and anxious, despite the party going on outside the French doors to Danny’s right. His worried gaze darted toward Danny then to the window overlooking the front gardens.

Paulina’s head bowed after having drank enough champagne to incapacitate every man in the room. She shut her eyes, her cheek swollen and red from where Maddox hit her before everyone congregated in his office. She’d said Maddox looked like a stereotypical gangster. Then he hit her. In front of Danny.

“I ought to pitch you right out the window and leave you for the wolves.” Maddox chuckled and eyed Dunnsforth. “It wouldn’t surprise anyone if you committed suicide when your wife sleeps around with the most powerful men in town.” He waved a hand to Joseph Roland, the third partner in DMR Architectural. “Present company included.”

Dunnsforth’s jaw sagged. “You pig.”

Roland stood and pulled out a gun. “Leave me out of this.”

Al, one of Maddox’s men, pushed him back onto the couch. Roland lowered the gun and wiped a thin veil of white powder from his nose.

“I guess she got tired of watching you have all the fun.” Maddox brushed lint from the sleeves of his tailored Armani suit, his hair slicked back. He looked dangerous, like Andy Garcia in Ocean’s Eleven.

From the death grip on her glass, Danny, whom Maddox and the others knew as Private Detective Donovan Wild, guessed Paulina had taken enough punches for one night. Her lip was swollen and cut. What she needed was to have another drink to block out the rest of the night. Liquid Amnesia, she called it once. Drinking life away was one of her many talents, according to Maddox.

“You’re too soft, Dunnsforth. She should be dead by now.” Maddox, unofficial overlord of DMR, talked about her, not to her.

“Shut the hell up,” Paulina muttered under her breath and wrapped her arms around her stomach. She sank into a leather chair, her gaze locked on the champagne bottle.

No one else had touched their drinks. They must have known about the drugs. Paulina didn’t. She was drugged by the champagne she hoped would take the edge off. Exactly what Maddox wanted.

The room grew warm with stress and body heat. Danny longed to scratch at the fake beard glued to his chin, but with Maddox already on edge, he was afraid to make any sudden moves.

“We’ll take care of her, Boss.” Chevy Duvall looked, walked and talked like a bear on steroids. No amount of bravery—liquid or otherwise—would make Danny unafraid of him.

His cousin, Al Duvall, resembled a pointy-nosed weasel and had a voice that grated on nerves. “I know a place where no one will ever find her.”

“Well, you can take Dunnsforth there once he does the deed. He screwed up by involving his secretary. Now he needs to tie up the loose ends.”

“I’d kill her just to listen to her scream.” Al shoved his face into Paulina’s.

She gave him a half-hearted shove.

Danny yanked him away. “Leave her alone.”

Paulina’s brilliant blue eyes narrowed. She’d never made it a secret she didn’t like Donovan. Everyone else who worked for DMR wore expensive tailored suits and smelled like expensive cologne. Donovan Wild was the exception, and he’d enjoyed the notoriety while he could. Thankfully, his assignment would soon come to an end.

“Back off, Wild.” Al straightened his suit jacket.

“It’s time.” Maddox’s smile faded.

It was official. Paulina Chourney went from executive secretary to loose end in less than an hour. Her boss was supposed to kill her to appease Maddox. Her lover. She knew too much.

For the past five years, she was trusted to keep Dunnsforth’s secrets. Danny had pictures of her photocopying contracts and memos Dunnsforth hid in a safe in his house. Paulina shopped for gifts for his wife and kids and arranged dates with his string of mistresses. Dunnsforth introduced her to Maddox, who made her his mistress who lived the life.

Was any of it worth Maddox’s scorn? From the way she covered her face with her hands, he was sure even drinking herself to death sounded preferable to taking a bullet.

Danny had a gun beneath his black leather jacket, but he doubted it would do much good when everyone else had similar weapons. “What do you want me to do?”

“Nothing.” Maddox shrugged. “Enjoy the show. This is Dunnsforth’s problem to take care of. If not, we’ll have to take care of him.”

Dunnsforth sat and poured two glasses of champagne. His hands shook and he spilled on Paulina’s blue dress. The wet blotch turned purple. “Drink up.”

“Yes, dear, drink up.” Maddox interlaced his fingers. “Enjoy your last taste of champagne.”

“I don’t want it.”

Chevy forced the glass to her lips.

The white French office doors flew open and Margaret Maddox, a tall, lean woman in a slinky red gown slit to her upper thigh, scowled. “Honestly, Gerard. You invite all these people over then disappear into your office with your cronies. Give them the night off from your petty demands to celebrate. It’s not every day your company completes a hostile takeover.”

Paulina knocked the champagne glass to the floor and ducked away from Chevy. She bumped into Danny, glowering when he didn’t move. She probably wanted him thrown into Lake Erie with an anchor around his neck.

“Margaret.” Maddox frowned and fastened the buttons of his jacket to cover the butt of his gun. “Knock before you disturb my meetings.”

Margaret, another platinum blonde with long legs and a revealing skirt, waved her champagne flute. “It’s a party, darling. All bets are off. Either you and your cohorts come mingle or I’ll bring the party in here.”

Roland snorted. “I need a fresh drink anyway.”

“Don’t we all?” Dunnsforth skulked out of the room and headed for the bar.

Paulina followed so fast she stumbled into him then grabbed his arm and spun him around, her voice sharp. “What have you done? Why does he want you to kill me?”

Danny moved in closer to eavesdrop.

Dunnsforth downed a shot of scotch and grabbed her arm. His words were lost when the pianist struck several heavy chords.

Danny wavered. If he appeared drunk enough, they might not care what he overheard. He scratched at his beard, glued on since his hadn’t filled in as quickly as his commanding officers had liked.

“—get out of town,” Dunnsforth said.

Paulina pushed him away, spun on one heel and headed for the patio door. She knocked aside whoever stood in her path. No one asked about the cut on her lip.

“She’s pissed.” Dunnsforth turned to the bar. “What did she think was going to happen?”

Danny ordered a drink. “What’s she drinking? I’ll see if I can calm her down.”

“She drinks whatever the hell she can get her hands on.” He downed a second scotch then signaled for a third. “What do you want, Wild? I thought you were Maddox’s spy. I’ve got no more secrets. You’re out of luck.”

“Just concerned Paulina might cause trouble.”

Dunnsforth laughed. “Son, you’re about three years too late for that. Margaret’s known about Maddox and Paulina since the night they met. She’s one shrewd woman.”

“Boyfriends, too, from what I hear.” Danny glanced toward the patio.

Paulina stood in the moonlight. Pretty but lethal. If Maddox caught him looking at her, his body would never wash up on shore.

He meandered through the crowd and noted where the main players were. Maddox argued with his wife near the office. Roland lounged on a leather couch, one hand on a blonde, the other wrapped around a hi-ball. Al and Chevy stood guard near the buffet table. Dunnsforth, held up by the bar, was joined by his wife, a waif with glittering white-blonde hair and a large set of implants.

Paulina paced the stone terrace and tugged her wrap tighter against the April breeze. A caged animal wearing a wide blue scarf with a silver floral print. Why hadn’t she left yet? Her life was in danger. Was she waiting for one last meeting with Dunnsforth?

Danny held out a glass of wine. “Need a drink?”

“No, thanks.”

“That’s not like you. Everything okay?”

She scowled. “I’m a dead woman. Everything else is great. Any other stupid questions?”

“I thought you would’ve left by now.”

“I came with Maddox.”

“He looks busy.” Danny sat the wineglass on a table near the door. “I could take you home.”

Paulina’s nostrils flared. “So I can be a notch on your belt too? At least you have nice eyes. You should shave.”

“What are you doing out here?” Maddox’s eyes were dark. Threatening.

“Keeping an eye on her,” Danny said.

“Get back inside.” Maddox stopped Danny. “Not you. Her.”

Paulina’s gaze met his. She headed for the door, stopping to pick up a glass of wine and taking a defiant gulp.

Margaret appeared. “I’m going home.”

“You’re waiting for me.” Maddox spoke over his shoulder, eyes on Danny. “As for you, Dunnsforth needs a reminder of how things work around here.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Keep his wife busy. Al and Chevy are taking him for a walk.”

Margaret cleared her throat. “I’m sending your whore home. The cab’s on its way.”

Maddox’s eyes closed. “Don’t get married, Donovan. Wives and mistresses are nothing but trouble.” He rejoined his wife and strolled into the crowd.

Danny waited until Maddox signaled Al and Chevy, who walked over to Dunnsforth at the bar.

“Heather?” Paulina beat him to his intended target. “I have something to say to you.”

Danny intercepted her. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“I don’t care what you think.”

“You will in a few minutes.”

She downed the entire glass of wine. “You want me. Let’s go to your car. Which one of us will Maddox kill first? He only lets me sleep with other men when he watches.”

Maddox walked past alone. “Plans have changed. Take her to my office. I’ll take her home after I find someone to keep Margaret busy.”

“Still want to wait for him?” Danny grasped Paulina’s elbow and led her to the office. He pressed a speed dial button.

“Bobby’s Bakery. What’s your order?” Bobby Holland was Danny’s partner on the force for the past two years.

“Move.”

“I am.” Paulina tried to shake off his hand.

“Where are you?” Bobby asked.

“Office.” Danny hung up when she cast a suspicious glance his way. “What?”

“You don’t have to be so rude. Move. Office. You’re a caveman.”

He yanked her, stumbling and swearing, out the patio door to his rented grey Mazda.

“I’m going to be sick.” She leaned on the hood.

“Get in. We don’t have time for that. We have to get out of here.”

“Slow down, big boy. What’s your hurry?” Paulina slurred her words and tumbled into the car. Her cheek banged against the steering wheel.

“Buckle up.” He pushed her over and glanced toward the house. No one had followed them. He hoped he’d get her to the rendezvous point before Maddox realized she was missing. By the time she sobered up, another officer would have her in protective custody.

“I don’t feel so good.” She sat up then vomited twice.

The smell made him gag as he put the car in gear. He rolled down the window. The crime lab would have to clean it up to search for evidence anyway. “You okay?”

She groaned and passed out before they reached the end of the driveway.

Danny, death grip on the steering wheel, was glad for the silence. He was antsy to take off the itchy blond beard and wig. Life was so much easier when he only had one personality, Danny Walker, police officer who didn’t have to worry about saving the lives of people he would rather put behind bars.

Maddox, Joseph and Dunnsforth had ruined more lives than a twister. He still had doubts whether Paulina was an accomplice or a victim, but she was the best witness he could have asked for. She would literally know where all the bodies were buried. All he had to do was keep her alive.

Another glance in the rear-view mirror. No vehicles. He briefly checked on the one witness who was going to bring them all down. She was out cold but still breathing.

Up ahead, an onslaught of police cars raced around the corner on their way to arrest Maddox and his entourage. Danny let his shoulders relax a quarter inch and worked his stiff jaw. If he went by the clock and didn’t run into traffic, he’d have Paulina locked up in a motel room in less than an hour.

By then, her coworkers should be in jail.

Hopefully, before anyone wound up dead.


 

Friday, August 23, 2013

Friday's How She Does It with Diane Bator


Diane has been a writer since she was able to hold a pencil and tell a story. An avid hiker, Reiki Master and martial artist, she loves to make a mess in the kitchen and putters in the garden at will. Joining the Headwaters Writers' Group in 2007 was the catalyst for unearthing several old writing projects. Her first murder mystery, Murder on Manitou, was published after winning a writing contest in 2010. She lives in Southern Ontario with her husband, three kids and a cat who thinks he's a dog.

 
We all know there are six elements of fiction. Who, What, When, Where, Why and How. I believe the first five lead to the sixth which for me is plot. What's your take on this? 
 

I totally agree! If any one of those elements is missing, plot suffers and the story limps along. Without a good, strong plot, a story will ramble and lose readers. It will also be difficult to create a strong synopsis (a necessity to grasp both an agent and a publisher's attention!) and a compelling blurb for your back cover. Every book and every story or poem we write should create an impact on readers and tell them a bit about us as the authors.

          
1.      How do you create your characters? Do you have a specific method?
 

I don't have a real method for creating characters. They seem to come to mind as I write about situations. Names and descriptions "feel" right and I sometimes find pictures off the internet or from magazines to keep their images in front of me as I work. Some characters, such as Mimsy Lexington in The Bookstore Lady, are composites of people and personalities that have been snipped from real life and blended with others.

 
2. Do your characters come before the plot? Do you sketch out your plot or do you let the characters develop the route to the end?
My characters usually come before the plot, which is sometimes woven from writing prompts in group meetings (I've belonged to the Headwaters Writers' Guild for several years). Most of the time, I start with a situation and a character or two then weave the plot around them. I do a rough outline sketch, but even that can change as my characters evolve.
 
3. Do you know how the story will end before you begin? In a general way or a specific one?
  In general, I usually know how the story will end before I begin. The Bookstore Lady, however, went through three completely different endings before my agent and I were satisfied!
 
4. Do you choose settings you know or do you have books of settings and plans of houses sitting around?
My stories are loosely based on places I know. Both Tales and Retales and Java Jo's Coffee House are based on local stores. Father Sam's house with the statue in the front yard, was a house I walked past every day while I worked on the book! When I need to become more detailed, such as in a couple of upcoming books in the Wild Blue Mysteries series, I turn to the internet or real estate magazines for floor plans and settings.
 
5. Where do you do your research? On line or from books?
 
Most of my research is done on-line although I do have shelves of books about many things! I also spend a lot of time in bookstores -- both new and used. I also like to "pick the brains" of some of my fellow writers and martial artists who give me new ideas and can answer inane questions about just about anything!

6. Are you a draft writer or do you revise as you go along and why?
Definitely a draft writer! I prefer to get absorbed and finish a manuscript then tuck it away for a couple weeks or more then pick it up when I'm not so attached to it and revise until my head spins. Working with a couple of friends and my agent, Dawn Dowdle, I have learned a great deal about editing and what makes my stories stronger. I find that I do more revising as I go now so a final edit isn't nearly as painful as it was even a year ago.

 

 
 
 

 
 

Just a Few Lines from Winter Fire by Kathy Fischer-Brown


A Few Lines from…
Kathy Fischer-Brown
Winter Fire
"Get back!" he shouted. "The ice won't hold you!"
She whirled around in alarm.
And in that split second, he saw her eyes. Those startled doe's eyes. Zara Grey!
In the next instant, a crack—like a musket shot—echoed through the ravine. She reeled as the ice heaved up beneath her amid an angry surge of black water. And then, her face frozen in a look of surprise, her mouth open in a semblance of a silent scream, she disappeared through the widening breach.
His gaze fixed on the roiling chasm, Ethan hurled himself down the slope. She surfaced—flailing arms and legs, and gasping desperately for air—churning up the black water into an icy froth. She grasped at the splinters of ice.
"Keep your head up!"
Racing along the bank, he ripped off his deerskin jacket and hurled it, along with his rifle and belt into the snow. If she went under again, she'd be trapped. Already the current had taken her, sweeping her like a bobbing cork toward the opposite bank where the ice was thicker.
"Keep your head up!"
But the frenzied movement of her arms had slowed. She gasped at the water along with the air. She could barely keep herself afloat. As if she had made a conscious choice to surrender herself to a stronger power, he saw the spirit drain out of her. An eerie calm settled over her eyes as her gaze met his, then she slipped under again without a struggle.
Without stopping to think, Ethan tore off his shirt and moccasins, and dove through the opening.

Visit Kathy’s website: http://www.kfischer-brown.com
Stop back next week for A Few Lines from… Angel de' Amor

Thursday, August 22, 2013

Thursday's Opening Scene from The Temple of Fyre by Janet Lane Walters


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 found 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 had stirred questions her tutors had 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 near, 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 that told tales that seemed unreal. The aged priestess in charge of the scriptorium had laughed when Ria had asked about dragons with eyes the color of the scarlet fyrestones. The old woman had scoffed when Ria had 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, for 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. If 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 had died suddenly, and the next day, her clan had 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.
* * * *