Tell us a little about yourself and your background?
My name is Ashlyn Drewek. I live in northern Illinois with my husband and my daughter. I have degrees in American History, but my actual day job is being a first responder. So I channel all of my odd loves, like history, and literature, and macabre things into my writing.
How do you make time to write?
It’s hard, especially when you work full time and have a family. When it’s slow at work, I squeeze in as much as I can. I also try to get some of it done either before my daughter wakes up or after she goes to sleep. Even if I’m not physically writing, I’m usually plotting in my head or figuring out scenes, so when I do get time at the computer, I can get it all out quickly.
Do you believe in writer’s block?
Yes, and no. I know what it’s like to not be inspired to write, but know you have to do it anyway. I also know what it’s like to have a vague concept/idea for a story or a character or a plot-line and you just have no freaking clue how to weave everything together to get your point across. That’s why I tend to have multiple stories going at once, so if I’m stuck on one, I can bounce to another and at least be productive in some sort of way.
Tell us a bit about the genre you write and why you love it.
At the heart of it all, I’m a romance writer. I love the interaction between couples, the push, the pull. I love all the warm fuzzies that go along with the newness of a relationship. But, more specifically, I write dark romance. Hallmark will never make one of my books into a movie, that’s for sure. I write about the paranormal, murderers, and mentally ill characters. I love tortured characters and “love” is the ultimate torture method.
How are you publishing your recent book and why? (*e.g. Indie, traditional)
Indie all the way. I am too, um, controlling shall we say, to turn my book baby over to an agency. I like working with my cover designer and formatting my own books and all of the behind-the-scenes work that goes along with it. Plus, the larger royalty payment is nice too.
Are you an Introvert or Extrovert?
Introvert. It’s great for the actual writing part. I’m quite comfortable sitting at a computer, whiling away the hours making up stories. Being an introvert only becomes an “issue” when it comes to promoting my work. I have a hard time “selling myself,” so that is something I’m working on.
What is your favorite motivational phrase?
“To write something you have to risk making a fool of yourself.”
~Anne Rice
What advice would you give to aspiring writers?
Do it! Don’t hold back. Write your first copy for yourself. Do NOT edit it until it’s finished. Be as crazy and outlandish and terrible as you want. Then, with each successive round of edits, tighten it up and polish it and present your originality to the world. There is literally an audience for every type of book, but you’ll never know if you don’t put your work out there for people to find.
Do you have an excerpt you’d like to share with us?
From THE MYSTERY OF LEANDER WELLES, a dark, psychological romance about a criminal psychiatrist who falls in love with her patient.
“It’s ok to be afraid sometimes. Everyone has fears. It’s not a weakness. It’s human — a natural response to the threat of danger programmed into us over a millennia.”
He tilted his head, considering me. “What are you afraid of, Doctor?”
Blinking, my brows furrowed. I supposed I walked right into that one. “I don’t know. The usual things I guess. Snakes.”
He smirked. “That’s a phobia.”
Damn it. Leave it to Leander to know the difference. “You tell me since you’re so perceptive.”
“Failure.”
Nodding, I motioned for him to continue. I wanted to see how clever he thought he was.
He leaned forward, his exquisite gaze fixed on mine. “Surrender.”
The hair on the back of my neck stood up and my breath caught in my throat. “The last time we talked about surrender, we were talking about suicide. Are you having suicidal ideations again?”
He jumped to his feet. I stood just as swiftly, blocking his path. He moved in the other direction. I sidestepped with him, putting my hands up to help keep him from escaping. He could have easily shoved me away, but something about his mood this morning told me he wouldn’t.
“Let me see your arms, Leander.”
He scowled yet remained where he was.
I reached for his left wrist and touched it gently, hoping he didn’t explode. He let me lift his arm and take out the silver cuff-link, flinching only when I began pushing the sleeve out of my way. His chest rose and fell in quick succession the higher the fabric went. There were no new marks on his arms, just dozens of old scars.
I repeated the process on his other arm, satisfied to find fewer scars than the first. None of them were fresh. Nevertheless, I didn’t feel a sense of relief. “Are you cutting somewhere else? Somewhere you think I won’t look?”
“Would you like me to undress for you?” His words were so soft that if they weren’t being uttered near my ear, I might not have heard him.
“That’s—” I cleared my throat, staring straight ahead at the smooth whiteness of his throat. It was safer than looking up at his mouth or his eyes. “That’s not necessary.”
“I didn’t ask if it was necessary.” His fingertips grazed the side of my hand, trailing down the length of my pinky. He toyed with the very edges of my fingers, sending a spasm of yearning through me. The memory of his body against mine came back, along with the butterflies dive-bombing my stomach.
Please welcome Val Tobin to the Clog Blog! Val, tell us a little about yourself and your background?
Thank you, Tina, for giving me this opportunity to share about myself and my work.
I grew up in Willowdale, Ontario. That seemed like the big city to me, but for those who lived in Toronto, it was the boonies. I went to elementary and high school in Willowdale, and graduated from Earl Haig Secondary School after grade thirteen, which they offered at the time.
After a semester of Book Editing and Design at Centennial College, I studied general arts at the University of Waterloo, then went to DeVry Toronto and got a diploma in Computer Information Systems. I worked in the computer industry as a software and Web developer for over ten years.
In October 2004, I became a certified Reiki Master/Teacher. I acquired ATP® certification in March 2008, in Kona, Hawaii from Doreen Virtue, Ph.D. I started work on a bachelor of science in parapsychic science from the American Institute of Holistic Theology in March 2007 and received my degree in September 2010. After obtaining my master’s degree in parapsychology at AIHT, I returned in 2008 to Kona, Hawaii to complete the Advanced ATP® training and in April 2010 to take the spiritual writing workshop and the mediumship certification class.
In the meantime, I wrote for tech site Community MX and for Suite101, and I was Topic Editor for Paganism/Wicca and Webmaster Resources at Suite.
I’ve published over ten books and contributed a story to Doreen Virtue’s Hay House book Angel Words. My novels are available on Smashwords, Amazon, and from other retailers in both e-book and paperback.
How do you make time to write?
I dedicate time in the day to writing a targeted number of words. Some days, that target is as low as fifty words. Other days, the target is as high as 2,000 words. I’ve done NaNoWriMo almost every year since 2012, which helps me to at least once a year dedicate thirty days to writing 50,000 words.
Do you believe in writer’s block?
Yes. Sometimes I lose focus or inspiration. The way around it, for me, is to read. Reading a story I enjoy from an author whose work I love motivates me to write. Or reading books about the craft of writing inspires me. Or working on aspects of my WIP that have nothing to do with adding words to the story, such as delving into a character’s motivations, trigger ideas for the story. Writer’s block is real, but it’s never permanent.
Tell us a bit about the genre you write and why you love it.
I write in a variety of genres: horror, fantasy, romance, science fiction, and I’m also working on a non-fiction book. I love stories and I love writing, and the story I want to tell at the time decides the genre.
My first novel is The Experiencers. It’s book one of the Valiant Chronicles series. It’s technically (literally) science fiction, but it’s also a thriller with a love story. The aliens and the technology make it SF. The non-stop action makes it a thriller, and the relationships add the love. I say love rather than romance because romance doesn’t drive the plot, and there’s no guarantee any of the relationships forged through the book will end happily.
Storm Lake, a short story, and The Hunted, a Storm Lake novel, are classified as horror because of the horrific creatures. They’re also SF because of the genetic manipulation integrated into the story. The relationship between Rachel and Hound Dog adds a romantic thread, but that’s not the story’s focus.
Injury, Poison Pen, Walk-In, Gillian’s Island, and You Again are all primarily romance, with Walk-In containing a paranormal element based on the new-age concept of the walk-in but with evil undertones, Poison Pen (a howcatchem story) and You Again (a whodunit story) containing murder, and Gillian’s Island having a mystery component (who’s sabotaging the resort?) Injury is pure romantic suspense and deals with a young actress who discovers the narrative she believed about her past is a lie.
What I love about these genres is they all have action, suspense, and relatable characters. My tastes have changed over the years, and I want more action and a faster pace in the books I read, so I inject that into my writing. Perhaps it’s a result of the tech boom and how everything happens so fast—often instantly. We don’t wait long for much of anything, and while I still appreciate reflective moments in a story, and do include them in my own works when required to move the plot forward or develop character, I enjoy short chapters and a fast pace.
I love writing about characters with a variety of traits, some I might share and some I don’t share at all, and exploring the world through their eyes and lives. For example, what I loved about Gillian in Gillian’s Island was showing how her thoughts differed from what she said because she was always afraid to speak her mind. The results were at times humorous.
How are you publishing your recent book and why? (*e.g. Indie, traditional)
Indie. I have one story in a traditionally published book (a non-fiction book by Doreen Virtue and Grant Virtue called Angel Words and published by Hay House), but all my other books and stories are indie published.
An author friend who was traditionally published in the 1970’s and now indie publishes helped me make up my mind when I wrote my first novel. We discussed the pros and cons of both, and for me, indie made sense. My educational background, experience, and skills I’ve developed over the years make it possible for me to publish my work myself. I also am lucky to have found a great cover designer and team of beta readers and editors.
Are you an Introvert or Extrovert? How does this affect your work?
I’m an introvert, so it’s difficult for me to network and socialize. It’s an asset during quarantine though. Stay home and avoid people? That’s my default.
It affected my work positively, too, by triggering an idea for a story. The novel Gillian’s Island came about because I’m an introvert. I can remember the moment I got the idea, and for anyone who wants to know where ideas come from, here it is:
We have a friend who owns an island resort near Temagami, Ontario. We don’t hear from him often, but one day, sometime in 2015, he called us up. I’d never seen the resort, so I looked it up online. It occurred to me it would be difficult to run a resort if you’re an introvert. You have to deal with people constantly.
From there, my mind leaped to “but if you have a spouse to handle all that, you can deal with all the administrative stuff and leave the people stuff to him.” Then I thought, “But what if you get divorced, and you’re left holding the bag?”
You can see where this is going. I thought, “This was a great jumping-off point for a new story.” I could already see my main character taking shape: an introverted woman who runs an island resort with her husband. She does all the admin work and manages the place while her extroverted husband schmoozes and deals with all the people aspects. Except he leaves her for another woman, and now my MC is left to run the resort. Except hubby wants his share of the money from the resort, so now my MC—Gillian, her name will be Gillian—must sell the resort.
And she loved the resort. It’s an island, and aren’t many introverts islands? I thought it was perfect that she lived on an island and wanted to stay there but was forced off of it. Her journey in this story is to find herself, to learn to be an island among people. The point isn’t that she must stop being an introvert; the point is that she must accept who she is and allow herself to trust other people so she can build healthy relationships.
What is your favorite motivational phrase?
“When you make music or write or create, it’s really your job to have mind-blowing, irresponsible, condomless sex with whatever idea it is you’re writing about at the time.” — Lady Gaga.
What advice would you give to aspiring writers?
Write the first draft for you. Second drafts are for your inner editor. Give yourself permission to suck on that first draft. You’ll find it liberating to realize no one needs to read it but you.
Do you have an excerpt you’d like to share with us?
Yes, thank you. I’ll share an excerpt from my latest release, You Again. It’s a second-chance romance about an accounting tech for whom complications arise when she’s assigned her former lover as a client and his company’s previous financial controller is found dead.
At five o’clock, Ellen walked into the Foundation Saloon and, when she gave her name, the hostess led her to a table with a booth near the back of the dining room. Gabriel was already there, a half-empty stein of beer in front of him.
“Got an early start?” she asked. The hostess set a menu in front of Ellen, who took a seat across from him.
He waited for the hostess to leave and then said, his expression serious, his tone dark, “We have a problem.”
She smiled—a cross between a smirk and amusement. “You being dramatic?”
“No. You ever hear of Francesca Newton?”
“I trained her on the financial software BRI uses. She replaced me as controller when I quit.”
He leaned toward her and said in a low voice, “She’s dead.”
Cold dread washed over Ellen. “What do you mean dead?”
“When I got to the BRI offices today, a detective was there. He told me her husband found her body in their apartment. Looks like suicide, but the police are investigating and treating it as a suspicious death.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. She seemed like a nice woman. Young. What a waste. I’m sure it’s just a routine investigation. They do that for any death that isn’t natural, don’t they?” And why would this be a problem for her, or more specifically, them? There was no “them.”
“He said there were indications she was murdered.”
The oxygen in the room seemed to vanish and Ellen gasped. “What indications?”
“He wouldn’t tell me. But if they think someone killed her, they likely have evidence.”
She nodded, unable to speak. Francesca had been a pretty woman in her late twenties. She’d been so full of life. Yes, that was a cliché, but in Francesca’s case, it was an accurate description. The young woman had been eager to start the new job and had learned the software quickly. Ellen had been positive she’d work out well.
“What could’ve happened?” she said aloud though she spoke more to herself than to Gabriel.
He replied anyway. “I don’t know.”
She recalled his comment at the start of the conversation. “Why is this a problem for us?” The publicity might be bad for him, but she’d left that company too long ago for anyone to associate her with it. Unless she took over their books, as Carol had assigned her to do.
She needed to clear this up immediately. “It won’t be a problem for me. I’m not taking the account. Are you really thinking only of the bad press over this? A woman died. She either killed herself or someone murdered her. Isn’t that more important than what the media might say about you over it?”
Anger flared in his eyes and he scowled. “That’s not where my mind went. How could you think that?”
“Why wouldn’t I think that? I don’t know you anymore. What else is there?”
“Don’t you think it’s strange that such a successful company went downhill after you left?”
Before she could respond, the server, a perky, petite redhead with braids and freckles, arrived to take Ellen’s drink order. Deciding she needed one, she ordered a glass of red wine—the nine-ounce rather than the six-ounce option. When the woman left, Ellen picked up the menu. She didn’t feel hungry, but stress eating was one of her go-to coping mechanisms, and the news of what could be the murder of an acquaintance had definitely stressed her.
“Want to order food?” she asked.
When he remained silent, she peeked up from the menu. He stared at her, his lips pressed together.
“What’s wrong?” Did he think her callous for wanting to order food? “I stress eat, Gabe. I’m not heartless.”
He set his palms on the table, bracketing his mug of beer, and said, “It’s not that. I have to leave soon. I’m going somewhere else for dinner.”
Her whole body went cold. “You have a date,” she stated. “On a Thursday.”
“Yes. One I made two weeks ago. I’m sort of seeing someone …”
“Sort of?” Francesca’s death popped into her head, and she waved a hand at him. “Never mind. I don’t care. You’re free to see whomever you want and do whatever you want with her. What matters is what happened to Fran.”
He gave her a slow nod. “Right. So, answer my question.”
“What question?”
“The company was prosperous. They had substantial revenues. Still do, from what I can tell. Their problems started after you left.”
She gasped. “You pinning that on Fran? Is that why you think she killed herself?”
“Or was murdered.”
Ellen brushed a hand through her hair, pulling errant strands off her face. The server arrived with the wine and set it in front of her.
“I’ll take an order of sweet potato fries,” Ellen told her. “Nothing for him,” she added with a nod in Gabriel’s direction.
After the redhead left again, Gabriel checked the time on his phone. “I have to go. Drinks and your food are on me. I’ll settle the tab on my way out. Order anything else you want. They’ll put it on my card.” He gazed at her contemplatively for a moment. “Don’t use it to get revenge on me.”
“Wow. Don’t worry. I can pay for my own food.”
“That was a joke, Ellen. Can we please forget the past? I’m sorry for what happened. We’ll figure it out. In the meantime, help me with BRI. Take on the account. Maybe, together, we can figure out if anything in the records could’ve triggered her death, whether by her own hand or someone else’s.”
“I don’t know. What I’ll do is think about it tonight and give you an answer in the morning. If I decide we shouldn’t work together, I’ll tell Carol to give it to someone else.”
“But you know the company already. If anyone can spot inconsistencies or anything that’s not right, you can.”
“You think she was deliberately cooking the books?”
“How would I know? It could be anything. You’d find the issue faster than anyone else. Will you do it?”
She pictured herself working with Gabriel, perhaps for weeks. She’d see or talk to him every day, given the unusual situation. But he was correct she’d find errors faster than anyone else. Plus, if it helped the police catch a killer or helped them understand why Francesca killed herself, didn’t Ellen owe it to everyone to do anything she could to figure it out?
Reluctantly, she said, “On one condition: When I’ve post-mortemed the files, when I’ve cleaned them up and everything’s in order, you turn the account over to someone else.”
“No problem,” he blurted. His expression told her he thought by that point she’d change her mind.
Ellen swore to herself she wouldn’t. She’d give him no choice but to put someone else on the account. By the time this was over, she’d find another job and remove herself from Gabriel’s life the way he’d removed himself from hers three years ago.
She reached out her hand. “Deal.”
They shook on it, and he walked away, her gaze following him out of sight.
Tell us a little about yourself and your background?
I am a writer mostly of poetry, but of other things as well. I always wanted to be a writer of novels, but the poetry came first, the novels have yet to completely emerge. I’ve had poetry published for many years. My husband and I moved to Bismarck, North Dakota from Indianapolis, Indiana because my husband accepted a new job as a psychiatric nurse. We hike, camp, and read. We enjoy learning and seeing this part of the country, it is very new to us.
What genre do you write in and what draws you to this genre?
I write mostly poetry, some flash fiction, and finally some essays speaking about culture (music, books, and tv. shows)
Have you written any other novels in collaboration with other writers?
No, but I am working on a visual/poetry collaborative project with a fellow poet/friend.
What excites you most about your current WIP (Work In Progress)?
I’ll talk in general terms about the visual/poetry project that I am working on with my poet friend. I’m just excited how each of our visual creations are sent to the other for writing inspiration. This is creating a cross-artistic energy since visual art and writing for me happen at two separate energy levels.
Almost everything, about any WIP, excites me. Where the flow of the writing is going, what the rough draft will revel, and what direction then it points to for revision. I realize that if I lose a certain level of excitement, then it is time to set that particular work aside until later.
Do you work to an outline or plot or do you prefer just to see where an idea takes you?
Mostly free form, just go with the flow of a general idea, or I have a visual and write down what I “see” as the action. I also will write mini-bios of characters – so that I may get to know them better away from what I write. I get a deeper “feel” of who they are, what their motivations are, the bios aren’t long or complicated. Sometimes that is just a fun exercise, getting to know the character outside of the writing somehow deepens my relationship with that character.
How do you relax?
I read, watch shows and movies, listen to many different genres of music – my musical taste is very eclectic. I also hike and have an active interest in historical preservation,
I have a series of journals that I work with, that are mostly visual, this is very relaxing. The journals are free-form, rarely when I sit down in front of an open journal do I have even a plan or thought how I will visually express myself. I may have a phrase or quote that I want to record in the journal, but then the visual work just emerges around that brief written passage.
What advice would you give to aspiring writers?
A couple of thoughts and I believe these thoughts about beginning the writing journey are related. I am concerned that aspiring writers are overly anxious for success, for finding their “voice” more quickly, with more self-confidence. I know I was eager and sometimes anxious about this as well. What I would like to say to aspiring writers, (and to my back in the day writer self) is that the writing will come, your “voice” will be found if you follow your instincts and try not to push it forcefully. I’ve learned from the advice “write what you know” that when you are beginning, the frustration can be overwhelming because sometimes it is, for example, I want to write about dragons, or such and such author writes brilliantly about dragons, but how can anyone really “know” about dragons that makes writing about them unique and special? I understand now that, that phrase, that advice really means “write what you are passionate about, what you have deep, authentic feeling about”. If you have that sincere interest in a topic you will acquire the knowledge that will naturally fit into your writing, your world-building (whatever genre you write in, you are world building), and you will find your specific “voice” for your writing. That said,…
Also, learn your craft for skill, and practice that skill with care.
Is there anything else you would like to add that I haven’t included?
Just random facts, my family is from the south, West Virginia specifically. I have the experience of a different culture to draw on, for example, the family stories about our family’s participation in the Civil War. Two of my patriarchal lines were Confederates (gg -grandfathers), one great grandfather was Union, yes my grandmother’s father was a Union veteran, and one I confirmed recently was neutral. So I have this rich, sometimes odd emotional history to at least fuel the feeling of my writing.
Where can readers find you on the World Wide Web?
My work that I would classify as weird Fiction and edgier poetry can be found on Yellow Mama/Black Petalspublishing site. Amazon has both my most recent chapbook “Star Slough” by Dark Heart Press, and my dark, gothic (fairytale?) published in the anthology Indiana Horror Review 2015
I’ve recently had poetry published in Redshift#4, AlienBuddaPress, The Shrew (ezine), and more, just google Jennifer Lemming poet. Oh, and KDAK 102.5 has frequently played my song Thunder Song (vocals Peter Kobal, CD The Only Star)
I am a contributor with reviews of movies and Streaming shows at a great cultural site, Drunk Monkey’s.
Do you have an excerpt you’d like to share with us?
This is the first poem I wrote after moving to North Dakota in 2014, (following my husband’s job relocation). It was published by Hobo Camp review in January 2016.
Please welcome Author Idabelle Aylor to the Clog Blog. Idabelle, can you tell us a little about yourself and your background?
I’m a wife. I’m a mom of teens and a 6-year-old. I have loved writing my entire life. I am a US Navy veteran. I am a business owner and a licensed massage therapist.
How do you make time to write?
Funny this question is here. We used to own a tire shop but it has pretty much gone under. So, now my husband is my agent and I get to write!
Do you believe in writer’s block?
Yep.
Tell us a bit about the genre you write and why you love it.
I am currently writing in sweet romance but also want to write women’s fiction/chick-lit. I like sweet romance because I like happy endings. I like happy stories even if there is some drama. There’s enough sadness in life, if I’m going to escape in a story I want it to be a happy/funny one or at least one where love always wins.
How are you publishing your recent book and why? (*e.g. Indie, traditional or something else)
Indie. I co-write in a different genre under a different pen name and have gotten a dozen rejections and after learning that you still need to promote yourself, I figured I’d publish myself and keep more of my hard-earned money.
Are you an Introvert or Extrovert? How does this affect your work?
A bit of both. I don’t like promoting myself so I’m glad my husband does. But I do love talking to people and learning about them. I use what I learn and people’s personalities and some life experiences in my stories as well. A good thing about being a little introverted is that it doesn’t hurt my feelings to stay in and write instead of going out.
What is your favorite motivational phrase?
Success is not so much achievement as achieving. Refuse to join the cautious crowd that plays not to lose; play to win. – David J Mahoney
What advice would you give to aspiring writers?
Keep writing. Keep talking about your work. Keep writing.
Do you have an excerpt you’d like to share with us?
Sofey smiled, the backyard condo for June’s pet squirrel and magpie had been quite the project.
“I remember when we built that condo. That was fun.” Sofey wiped the condensation from her bottle, “I miss Barney.”
“Me too, Dolly.” June finished her drink and stood up.
“Hey, why don’t you come over tonight and watch the finale of Jury of Love with me. I didn’t even know the dadgum show had started a season!” June pursed her lips and took a sip of her pop.
“They say there’s a local guy on there this season. Well, local like a Caraway.”
“Caraway? Really? Huh, that’s only like 15 miles away.”
“I know, I’m sure he’s a celebrity now around these parts but I doubt I’d know a celebrity from Adam, if I ran into one.” June set her empty pop bottle on the table and stood up.
“Well, I’m ordering pizza. You bring the refreshments.” She was already at the front door when she added, “See you in an hour!”
Tell us a little about yourself and your background?
I’m a born and bred Midwestern girl who escaped to Southern California for one year during my early 20’s but came home when I missed the change of seasons. Growing up in Ohio, Michigan, and Illinois will do that to you! On cold winter days, my older bones talk to me, as in “What the heck were you thinking?” Now I live in Central Illinois with my husband, who always wants to talk when I’m trying to write. My two kids and one grandchild live nearby, and we see them often.
I’ve been writing for as long as I can remember! I wrote horse stories as a child, then poetry in junior high and high school. My friends and I traded romances starting in high school, and it didn’t take me long to decide I wanted to write them. It took me a lot longer to actually do it, but here I am! My goal is to give readers the same escape I discovered in books.
How do you make time to write?
I’ve learned it’s important to write every day. My muse is happier that way! I don’t have set writing hours, but usually spend a chunk of afternoons and evenings writing, or doing writing-related tasks. In some respects, it’s easier since I retired from my day job last summer. While my husband is doing outdoor chores or golfing with his buddies, I can write uninterrupted. When I was working, I sometimes struggled to make time to write because it took away family time. But writing has always been important to me. Laptops were a great invention! My laptop allowed me to be on the computer as much as possible, even when my kids were sprawled around the family room watching TV or playing video games.
Do you believe in writer’s block?
Definitely. If my creative well is low, I struggle to put ideas together, to make words flow the way they should. Self-care is important as well. I try to walk every day for at least an hour. But sometimes the words just aren’t there. In that case, I read, have more conversations with friends, and go for longer walks. Ideas tend to spark for me when I do those things.
Tell us a bit about the genre you write and why you love it.
I write sweet contemporary romance. I love it because I can explore characters and their relationships without being explicit. My characters can have all the feels without restricting their actions to MY imagination. Readers can use their own imaginations for what happens with my characters behind closed doors.
How are you publishing your recent book and why? (*e.g. Indie, traditional or both)
I just Indie published my most recent book in January via Amazon. To be honest, I’ve always wanted to be a traditionally published author, and I haven’t given up on that, but the publishing landscape is open now. I discovered the Common Elements Romance Project (https://commonelementsromanceproject.wordpress.com/) and wanted to be a part of it. All books for the project were required to be self-published, so that’s what I did!
Are you an Introvert or Extrovert? How does this affect your work?
I’m an Extrovert, very much a people person. I can talk to almost anyone. Being an extrovert is a blessing and a curse as an author. It’s a blessing because, well, people! Everybody has a story and you never know when someone will trigger an idea, whether from something they say, their behavior, or even just their appearance. People-watching can be interesting! Being an extrovert is also a curse because when I’m working on a book, it’s hard to stay isolated and focused. I crave contact with other people.
What is your favorite motivational phrase?
“Start writing, no matter what. The water does not flow until the faucet is turned on.”
— Louis L’Amour
What advice would you give to aspiring writers?
If you are passionate about writing, don’t just take courses or read books – you have to WRITE. The more you actually write, the more you will learn.
Do you have an excerpt you’d like to share with us?
STORMS OF THE HEART excerpt
Home. She blinked several times. She’d finally grown up and realized people made a place home, not buildings. Her heart climbed into her throat, but she refused to cry. Breathe in, breathe out, she coached herself. You can do this! Despite Uncle Wayne’s pleas and assurances, it had taken a long time to find the courage to return. Now that she was home, she couldn’t wait to feel his firm bear hug.
She straightened her shoulders and pushed away from the house. Yes, she could do this! At twenty-five, she could finally take control of her own life. She could put her past to rest and look forward to her future.
Emerson flinched when another crack of lightning split the air and forked through the sky, illuminating two cars parked at the side of the house. She hadn’t noticed them before. One was a distinctive black and white car with SHERIFF in gold lettering on the side.
Her breath hitched as she peered through the downpour. Wait. What is the Sheriff doing here? She’d already lost her parents and her aunt. She couldn’t lose Uncle Wayne, too. Not now.
Swallowing her panicked thoughts, she hurried toward the front door. Her shoes squished cold water between her toes with every step. She stripped off her wet jacket and dropped it in the corner. The dim yellow porch light flickered and went out.
With her heart beating faster in the darkness, Emerson scrubbed her hands over her wet face. Add cops and power outages to what else could go wrong.
Damn those negative thoughts! She inhaled deeply and shoved them out of her mind. She knocked on the door. The cop car didn’t mean anything. Uncle Wayne was expecting her. Soon she would be warm and cozy inside.
She knocked again, harder this time.
Still no answer. Maybe Uncle Wayne couldn’t hear her over Mother Nature’s cries, but he wouldn’t expect her to stay out in the rain. She tried the knob and found it unlocked.
Another deafening crack of lightning shattered the air. Something hit Emerson’s knee from the side. The momentum tore the doorknob from her hand. Her backpack fell to the ground as the thing brushed by and sent her stumbling through the doorway.
Ooof!
Strong arms caught and cradled her. She froze as earthy cologne with just a hint of citrus filled her nose. A long, whimpering whine sounded before a voice from somewhere above her head ground out, “Get back out there, dog.”
Snug against his chest, her body absorbed the rumble of the man’s words, while her mind struggled to place the oddly familiar scent of his cologne.
“Oh, let him be,” twittered a high, excited voice nearby. “He doesn’t like storms.”
Welcome to the club. It was too dark to see the woman, but she must be the live-in housekeeper Uncle Wayne had mentioned. Mrs. Beresford. This man, though. She inhaled his scent again. His embrace warmed her chilled body as he steadied her, but didn’t let go. She felt strangely safe in his arms.
“I’m sorry. The lightning startled me,” she offered into the darkness as she pushed against the man’s chest. He released her and she shivered.
“It’s not the dog’s fault.”
The man sighed, and then she heard the front door close heavily against the wind. The dog pressed against the back of her legs. Her jeans soaked up his dampness. He whimpered and her heart went out to him. I’m with you, buddy.
The strong odor of sulfur wafted through the air, followed by a welcome glow lighting the room.
“You must be Emerson.” A woman with a short, layered bob of red hair held a lantern as she came forward, reaching out a thin hand. She smiled, and her touch was gentle on Emerson’s arm. “Wayne told me all about you.”
She squeezed the woman’s hand and smiled. “You must be Mrs. Beresford.”
The older woman glowed with pleasure. “Please, call me Irene.” She gestured toward the door and her smile faded. “This is Sheriff Lomax.”
Emerson’s pulse jumped, but she pasted on a smile and turned.
Max. His hair was darker than the last time she’d seen him, but even in the shadowy light, she knew those grayish-blue eyes, that straight nose, and that little cleft in his chin. It had been seven years, and yet she’d never forgotten the heat between their bodies as she’d pressed against him down by the creek. The tenderness of his kiss had surprised her, had made her feel when she didn’t want to feel anything.
She’d tried to seduce her crush and failed miserably. What had she been thinking? Oh yeah. That was the problem. She hadn’t been.
If you are an author looking for some promo opportunities, this space has over 850 subscribers. Most of the viewers here are aspiring writers or fans of romance.
If you write Romance (any genre) I’d love to interview you. If you write another genre but like to talk about writing and your process, again, I’d like to interview you. Are you seeing a pattern?
I have this FORM you can fill out and send to me along with a head shot and or book cover and I can get you schedule in the next available spot or we can post close to a release date.
Please join me in welcoming my fellow North Dakota author, Stephanie Patel.
Stephanie, tell us a little about yourself and your background?
I was born in a little village in Alaska, the ninth of fifteen children, and moved to North Dakota with my mother and remaining siblings when I was nine, after my father and brother died while fishing. I lived in Jamestown, Kathryn and Valley City in North Dakota, graduating from VCHS. I went to college at the University of Missouri, Columbia and at Moorhead State (now University of Minnesota at Moorhead). I graduated from the University of North Dakota School of Law and practiced law in Alaska for 35 years, minus about seven years creating an alternate junior/senior high school for youth falling through the cracks. I have been writing for many years; however it was only after I retired that I could focus full-time upon it. My book, Born in the 20th Century: A Novel of the Midwest, was released in eBook form on November 1, 2019 and is now available in print, on Amazon.
How do you make time to write?
I am currently retired and can work 8-12 hours per day if I am motivated. I tend to be obsessive when I am on a project and everything else will fall away. Although I had been working on this book off and on for years, I spent about six months working 6-12 hours per day to get it completed and in final edited form.
Do you believe in writer’s block?
Well, I have no reason not to, although I don’t really experience it myself. I write when I feel the compulsion to do so, and if I don’t feel it, I don’t write. It’s as simple as that. If I am not writing, it is because I have other things on my plate to which I am giving attention. I have a number of books and other works in progress.
Tell us a bit about the genre you write and why you love it.
My current book would fit into the “coming of age” genre. I consider it Literary Fiction. I try to hit all the notes when I write—the entire scale of physical dimension, emotional expression, psychological patterns, intellectual ideas and spiritual context. I love to make people laugh, and so if I can bring humor into what I write, all the better. I like to stimulate thought, assist my reader in getting different perspectives on issues, and most of all give them something that will be interesting and satisfying.
How are you publishing your recent book and why? (*e.g. Indie, traditional or both)
I decided to publish my current book myself because I’m a bit of a control freak. Also, it is a long book (almost 225,000 words) and I realized it would be difficult to find a publisher who would take on such a long book, since most traditional publisher’s like to stay in the 150,000 word realm. Finally, although I’d had professional interest in the book while working on it, I did not want to take the time to shop it around. I did submit the book to Beta readers to test reactions and had such enthusiasm from them that I decided to plow ahead and self-publish, which I did through Kindle Direct Publishing, a branch of Amazon. It’s a pretty simple way to go, involving no expense except for the author copies.
My current book is
Born in the 20th Century: A Novel of the Midwest
Are you an Introvert or Extrovert? How does this affect your work?
I don’t know that I am either. I like my alone time very much. However, I am not too shy to take the floor when there are issues that are important to me.
What is your favorite motivational phrase?
You will know which path is yours because nobody else is on it.
What advice would you give to aspiring writers?
Read and write. Write about what you know. Yes, you can use your imagination and should—however, bring alive your own experience and perspective. Learn the rules of good writing, absorb style from your favorite authors, and then go beyond them. Create your own unique style. As I say, average writers know the rules; good writers know them and when to break them.
Do you have an excerpt you’d like to share with us?
By the time we reached Fargo the predicted snow flurries had arrived, along with a good wind. North Dakota highways had a Midwestern personality like their human counterparts: they were straight as arrows, not so bad, and open to the next kingdom. These characteristics did not combine well with wind and snow. Even when there was little of the latter falling, the wind could kick up what was already on the ground, so that often in winter we seemed to be driving through continuous streams and rivulets that ran across our path. It was not a big step from there to whiteout conditions. In fact, visibility was very poor for the last ten miles or so into Fargo, not an unusual occurrence in that part of the country, and Mother kept both hands on the wheel, her eyes focused in front of her. She hated interruptions when driving through difficult weather events. When Yippee tried to get her to take his side on some dispute with me, she barked, “Play nice. I can’t be distracted right now.”
Once we were in the city proper, driving up South University Avenue, visibility improved along with her attitude. She pulled into the K-Mart parking lot to get some aspirin, and gave us some dimes to ride the mechanical horse in the lobby. Then we all had to use the restroom.
When we emerged, the snow was thicker, the flakes bigger. The temperature was still in the high twenties, which meant that the main roads, where there was heavier traffic, were slushy more than slick. We drove up University Avenue to King Leo’s Drive-In, where Mother purchased us each a fifteen-cent hamburger and a ten-cent fries, which was always a treat when we were in Fargo, and always a condiment fiasco. Two hamburgers had to be sent back to be rectified.
Then it was a stop at a gas station to fill up.
The attendant cleaned all our windows and when the tank was full came around to collect payment. “I hope you’re not going far,” he said when he brought back the change. “They say they’re closing down I-94 past Jamestown.”
“We’re going north,” Mother said. “Only about forty-five minutes.”
“Well, I wouldn’t delay then. You can probably still make it.”
“We’re leaving right now.”
“Drive careful.”
Mother put the Bonneville in gear and headed for US 81, which paralleled the Red River north into Canada.
“Maybe we should turn around,” Myra said worriedly. “I don’t want to get stuck in a blizzard.”
“What good would that do?” Mother asked pointedly. “If it’s coming from the west, it’s going to be as bad going back as it is going forward. We’re more than half-way. We should be able to outrun it.”
As soon as we got out of town, however, the visibility dropped precipitously. Approaching cars materialized a hundred feet in front of us; buildings and sign posts alongside the highway appeared ghostly. I was, however, not worried. It was North Dakota in the winter. Snow and fog were part of the season. In fact, I was too busy eating to pay much attention until I heard Mother exclaim in frustration, “Darn it! I can’t hardly see the road!” My attention captured, I looked out the window at the passing scenery, only to discover that it had disappeared. We were floating in a sea of white.
The wipers were going slip-slap, and with each swipe they cleared snow from the windshield and left rivulets draining down the glass. I could see that the snow was falling even heavier now, the flakes clumping together on the glass so that everything but the half-moon scraped by the wipers was opaque. Mother was hunched over the steering wheel, which she held tightly in both hands, her knuckles white. I could see that the speedometer needle was hovering between twenty and thirty miles-per-hour. It was impossible to judge our speed or location by landmarks, which had disappeared. We were flying on instruments.
“How do you know where you’re going?” I asked Mother curiously.
“Blind faith,” she hissed from between clenched teeth. And then she added more kindly, “I look over to the side of the road. I can just see the ditch. However, I have no idea what’s twenty feet in front of me. Or behind.” She opened her window and stuck her head out to the side to see if she could get more visibility without the slapping wipers, the scudding snow and water on the windshield.
The good part about North Dakota roads was that if we went into the ditch, we went into the ditch, not over a sixty foot cliff or into a close encounter with a tree. The not-so-good part was that we might be covered in the ditch by a snowdrift twice our own height and they might not find us until spring—or until the next strong wind blew us clear. Drifts were forming even as we drove—Mother swerved suddenly to skirt the high point of a snow bank that stretched across our lane, like a white seal basking on the road. Our progress slowed slightly as she churned through the tail of it, and then for the length of two Middleton blocks the highway was swept clear as if by a giant broom. The wind was so strong that it rocked our car, unprotected by anything except the wind’s own caprice as it created and swept away drifts.
Occasional cars approached, going south, their headlamps appearing dully out of the maelstrom, passing us with a swish! Once a car overtook us from behind, trailing in our wake until Mother pulled over toward the shoulder and slowed even more, allowing it to pass on our left, throwing snow. “Arggh. Some people,” she muttered.
At Mother’s suggestion, Myra dug out one of Nonie’s bottles. Sitting on her lap, alternately sucking and chewing on the nipple, he stared fixedly out the window, stunned into stillness by the whiteness, whether through fascination or disorientation.
Yippee curled up in his corner with a couple of his little men, occasionally talking quietly for them as they hiked up his bent leg or over the driveshaft hump in the floor. “I’s berry steep. Keep goin’, you ken do it.” His plastic people were very encouraging to each other, at least until they encountered the enemy in battle—then they slaughtered each other with joy and abandon, rarely leaving more than one or two survivors, and sometimes none at all. He did not bother to look up at the maelstrom outside the car, as secure in his personal safety as his three-inch plastic alter-egos might have been devoid of hope in theirs.
Myra and I both kept our eyes on what was happening around us. Perhaps nothing so much represented the differences between us as our individual reactions. Myra was clearly troubled by the possibilities and kept glancing nervously at Mother. I, on the other hand, was pumped up with excitement. In fairness, she was two years older and therefore more aware of the downside of death, mayhem and suffering in general. I fell somewhere between her and Yippee, who acted out death, mayhem and suffering with such glee. I wasn’t playing war, but I was drawn to imagining adventure. Whether it was encountering space aliens with ray guns, alligators in the creek behind Gramma’s house, or a tornado on the horizon, it relieved the monotony of 9:30 bedtimes, waking up in the same bed every day and passing the same houses on the way to school, every one of which I could have described in detail, along with the names of the dogs who lived in them. I had, in fact, no experience with being on the losing end of space aliens, alligators or tornadoes. No one close to me had died, the only maiming with which I was familiar was the mangling of Yippee’s hand in the fan—which he didn’t even remember—and suffering was a stubbed toe or being sent to my room when Saturday cartoons were on. My interest in such matters as the orphaning of the Monsen children was more curiosity than compassion.
In order to reach Sheverak we had to turn off US 81 and head west into the maze of dirt and gravel roads that ran like dikes between rippling seas of wheat and corn in the summer and frozen snow clogged stubble in the winter. Mother was searching through the flying snow for the turnoff, certain it was near—if indeed we had not passed it. The wind let up for a moment, enough for her to see one of the mile markers. “Dang nab it!” she exclaimed. “We’ve come too far. I’m going to have to turn around.”
The problem was that there was no obvious place to do that, other than right in the middle of the two-lane highway in the middle of a blind snowstorm, with the potential of getting t-boned by oncoming traffic.
“Is that a side road?” Mother asked suddenly, peering through the windshield. The defrost was running full blast, siphoning the heat from the spacious car interior, so that I had to curl my feet up on the seat so they didn’t get cold. “Myra! Look! Isn’t that a road?”
At that moment Mother jerked on the steering wheel, determined not to miss the turnoff. The car spun in a semi-circle and came to a stop with a dull thud. We all sat still for a moment. Then Mother pressed on the gas pedal. The back tires spun. The car remained where it was.
Mother thumped the steering wheel. Yippee stuck his head up over the front seat back. “Are we der?”
“No, Stupid, we’re stuck,” I informed him. I put my face up against my window to try to see.
Please join me in welcoming fellow North Dakota author Danielle Teigen. Danielle, Can you tell us a little about yourself and your background?
I’m originally from South Dakota, but came to North Dakota to attend college at North Dakota State University, where I earned bachelor’s degrees in journalism and management communication and a master’s degree in mass communication. While in college, I fell in love with the rich history of Fargo.
How do you make time to write?
I have two young children and am expecting another, so I write after they go to bed, in the morning before they’re awake or during my lunch hour in the daylight hours.
Do you believe in writer’s block?
I do believe we get stuck sometimes when we’re trying to get to the next part of our story or move on to another facet of the storyline. I think we often get so excited about moving on or making progress that we forget we have to finish telling the part of the story we’re on.
Tell us a bit about the genre you write and why you love it.
As a journalist, I enjoy researching and telling intriguing, true stories and that’s what nonfiction writing is. The biggest challenge with nonfiction writing is being able to weave together the facts while still telling a story people want to read, a story that comes alive not only because it’s true but because of how it is recounted.
How are you publishing your recent book and why? (*e.g. Indie, traditional or both)
Traditional. Arcadia Publishing/The History Press reached out to me to publish a hyper-local history book about Fargo, and then I pitched the second book about the Fargo Fire of 1893.
Are you an Introvert or Extrovert? How does this affect your work?
I’m actually both. I would say this serves me very well because I am completely content holing up somewhere to research or write for as long as I am able to, but I also really enjoy giving presentations about my book or talking with people about the research. Both are satisfying in different ways.
What is your favorite motivational phrase?
Done is better than perfect!
I actually do use that phrase when I’m trying to get words on the paper or the facts all in the right order and then I go back in during the editing phase to polish and refine the story.
What advice would you give to aspiring writers?
Make time to write whenever or wherever you can. When I was writing my first book, I thought I’d block off huge chunks of time to write and make monumental progress every time I sat down. In reality, I had to make time throughout the day or week to make what felt like small steps toward completion, but they all did add up to one finished manuscript. I also encourage writers who believe they have a good story to tell to sit down and actually outline their work. Yes, things may change, but I think having a general framework for where you want to go and what you want to cover in your story can be extremely beneficial, especially when it comes to staying focused and having good direction.
Fueled by ambition and pipe dreams, Fargo’s earliest residents created an entire city out of the dust of a flat, desolate prairie. Roberts Street might not exist if it weren’t for Matilda Roberts, a resourceful pioneer wife who encouraged her husband’s cousin to set up his law firm on that important downtown thoroughfare. O.J. deLendrecie generated so much success through his retail store that he was able to buy President Theodore Roosevelt’s ranch in western North Dakota. Oliver Dalrymple may have been the bonanza farm king, but the better manager was his rival, Herbert Chaffee of the Amenia and Sharon Land Company. Author Danielle Teigen reveals the intriguing true stories behind many of the most engaging characters and what continues to make the “Gateway to the West” unique.
Please welcome author Diane Zhivago to The Clog Blog. Diane, tell us a little about yourself and your background?
I’m a Gemini. I’m also a Canadian. I live in Newfoundland, Canada in a quaint little seaside town with my husband, our 20-year-old daughter who’s still in college, and our 12-year-old son. I’m also stepmom to my husband’s eldest daughter and step-grandma to two beautiful little boys, 8 and 6. I’m a veterinary assistant by trade, though I’ve worked at everything from postal delivery to heavy equipment operator for Canadian National Railway. I’ve been writing stories since childhood. My mother was a lover of books and reading and passed on that love to me, so when I ran out of reading material I would sit down and make up my own stories and then read them to my family or friends. I wrote my very first manuscript when I was about 12 or 13. It’ was over 400 pages handwritten—a romance story involving a boy I had a crush on at the time and with all of my friends as characters.
How do you make time to write?
At the moment I am not working so I usually write during the day when everyone is at school or work. I carry around a notebook everywhere I go (like to my son’s football games) so that I can jot down any ideas I have for stories or scenes and conversations that might pop into my head.
Do you believe in writer’s block?
Definitely! But I find that the best cure is to just sit and read…get absorbed into a story that’s not your own making. Us writers usually start out as avid readers and reading really does kickstart your imagination so when the words aren’t flowing, I’ll usually take a break for a day and just read.
Tell us a bit about the genre you write and why you love it?
I write steamy romance. Mostly paranormal though I don’t consider myself locked into that category. I do enjoy it though! My favorite books to read are paranormal…vampires, werewolves, ghosts, witches; I love all of it! And it’s so fun to write! You can really let your imagination soar when you write paranormal. My family is of Irish descent, so I grew up with stories about shapeshifters, witches, fairies and such. I think that played a huge part in why I love to read and write paranormal romance. And who doesn’t love great sex in a romance book, right? My paranormal romance stories have it all!
How are you publishing your recent book and why?
I have five books published as an Indy author. I had submitted in the past to a publishing company but the rules and regulations of word length, descriptive language allowances, etc. just made it so hard to get my style of writing to pass all the checkmarks, though I came very close a few times. As an Indy author, I get to write MY story, MY way, and I like that. I like having the freedom of being an Indy author.
Are you an Introvert or an Extrovert? How does this affect your work?
I’m an Introvert mostly…though, being a Gemini I can’t truly lay claim to it wholeheartedly. I’m very at ease with my own self and my own thoughts. I can live happily inside my head and I don’t really long for the company of the human variety. In a crowd I’m never at the center of attention—I hate attention—and yet I can work a room if I have to but it’s an act…not the real me. I like watching people, studying them. I’m good at conversation when I have to be, but I abhor small talk.
I’m a very private person. That’s been the hardest part of being a published author. Talking about myself and my writing isn’t something I’m used to doing and I haven’t figured out a character to be when I’m doing it, so I’m still in my learning curve.
What is your favorite motivational phrase?
My Grandmother used to always tell me,
“As long as you believe in the faeries, there’s always a possibility you’ll see one someday.”
I think that’s motivated me throughout the years to always look for the wonder and joy in the world…to see the magic in every day.
What advice would you give to aspiring writers?
Don’t give up. Don’t worry about the critics. Reviews are only opinions so take them with a grain of salt. And the most important thing…write the whole story first! Before you fix it. Before you go back and re-edit that chapter for the tenth time…finish the story! The mistakes will wait. It’s more important to get the story out of your head and onto the paper first. You can get lost in editing…write the whole story!
Do you have an excerpt you’d like to share with us?
I’d love to share a little peek of my latest release with you. Pride & Predator is the fourth book in my Therion Beast series of Paranormal romance. It’s available on Amazon. The excerpt is from Chapter 2.
Inside, the seedy Montreal bar was a welcome relief from the sleet and snow of the Eastern Canadian winter. Gregor moved through the bodies of people packed tightly together in the club, his gaze locked onto his target while his companion, Aurora, followed closely behind; her mate, Matthew, waited in the black SUV just outside in the alley behind the dive.
At least Leanna had the sense to take a table far enough away from the crowd of people dancing. He grimaced, wondering why such meetings had to take place in such unsavory settings. What was wrong with an elegant restaurant as the backdrop for such matters? He cast a sideways glance at Aurora who was still diligently scanning the crowds, her senses on alert for anything that might indicate a threat. Even as she perused her surroundings, though, he couldn’t help but notice how her body seemed to move to the music blaring from the extra-large speakers on either side of the DJ’s table. Aurora was young, barely into her twenties. She fit into this crowd with her leather jacket, multiple piercings, and colorful hair. He, however, was decades past his one-hundredth birthday—though still quite young for his kind—not that he actually felt young at the moment. He sighed, his thoughts needing to be put on hold as he approached the table where the middle-aged blonde woman was seated, waiting for him.
Leanna smiled as he took the seat next to her, leaning in to kiss her softly aging cheek. He introduced Aurora as his niece, though he was certain Leanna knew she was nothing of the kind. The older woman accepted the presence of the younger woman without question, as he knew she would. Leanna was—along with other things—trustworthy at the least. She refrained from asking too many questions, another reason why he had reached out to her for this particular job. There were very few humans whom Gregor trusted. But Leanna was one of them.
Her eyes sparkled as she gazed at him now. “It is so good to see you, Bastian,” she said, in her careful English, the accent of her Acadian heritage still thick on her tongue. “You have not changed one bit in the years since we last met. Unlike me.”
Gregor inclined his head. He knew that she was ribbing him in the way she normally did. She was aware that he was not human—not exactly human, at least. But that was as far as her knowledge went. She had been a young child when he’d first met her. Lost in the woods where he’d been hunting. He had carried her out, brought her to an area where the men searching could easily find her. And he’d waited, albeit hidden from their view until she’d been discovered and returned safely to her distraught mother. She had told no one that it had been he who saved her, as he’d asked. A child who was capable of keeping a secret was a special child indeed, and so Gregor had kept in contact with her, unbeknownst to her family. He had watched her grow into a beautiful woman who was still capable of keeping secrets.
“I must say, I like this…”
She reached out toward him and stroked the side of his face where the full beard he had worn for decades was now shaved, trimmed, and tightened into a well-formed, goatee that managed to make him look as though he were in his early thirties.
“You look younger, without the beard. I suspect you would barely pass for thirty without this.” She gave the hair at his chin a slight tug, her lips curving suggestively.
Gregor grasped her hand and gently kissed her fingers before placing it meaningfully on the table. Their time together was in the past. Where it should be. What affair they may have had was long over.
She smiled at him ruefully. Her gaze drifted over to Aurora. “Your uncle is a man of singular determination, no?” She chuckled to herself, not waiting for Aurora to answer. “Here is the information you were seeking. I assume I will find my bank account has been sufficiently updated?” She chuckled again.
Leanna would gladly offer her services for free; Gregor had been the one to insist on payment… especially now that they were no longer involved intimately. He did not believe in using women. Both parties should gain from the relationship. And so, when their short-lived affair ended, Gregor saw to it that Leanna was well taken care of. She would always be important to him. A dear friend. He was not a man who took that lightly.
He looked down at the large brown envelope she was sliding toward him on the table. He reached for it, extracting the 8 by 10 black and white photograph inside.
“This was taken a few weeks ago in North Sydney, Nova Scotia. The woman in the picture was going by the name of Eve Radcliff. She purchased a pass for the ferry to Argentia and was checked in as a passenger in a domestic vehicle.”
Gregor stared at the photo. In it, the woman was wearing a white baseball-style cap, her long, pure white hair was pulled through the back. She wore a matching white hoody, dark jeans, and sneakers. Dark glasses hid her eyes from view, but nothing could erase those eyes from where they had burned into his memory. Electric blue—unnatural, even without any sign of her beast. She looked young, beautiful, and human—the latter of which she was definitely not.
Leanna was looking at him. “Is she a friend of yours?”
Gregor pressed his lips together and slid the picture back into the envelope. “You will mention this to no one,” he said by way of an answer to her question.
“Of course not.” Leanna was a smart woman. A man who did not age in the forty-plus years she had known him was not a man one should defy. She accepted another kiss on her cheek then watched him as he stood. “It was wonderful to see you again, Bastian,” she said, sincerely.
“And you, Leanna. You will take care of yourself?”
She smiled, her eyes warm if a little misty. “As always, old friend.” Her gaze followed him as he moved away from her, his niece falling into step just beside him.
Aurora looked up at Gregor as they walked away, her pierced eyebrow lifted in question. “Bastian?”
Gregor gave an uncomfortable shrug. “It is my given name.” He did not like talking about himself. Ever.
“Bastian Gregor. That’s your name?” He heard Aurora give a low whistle. “You can live with someone all these years and not know a single thing about them.” She shook her head.
“Gregor Savage, is my name.” It was his badge of honor as well. Captain of the Alpha guard, bodyguard to the Alpha. His name signified his exalted rank within the clan, something he was proud of.
“Wait.” Aurora’s eyes were narrowing as her brain was busily dissecting this new information. Gregor had to resist rolling his eyes at her, the young pup was exasperating at times. Had she not been one of his best assassins and a damn good guard, he’d have probably strung her up by her ears long ago. “Nicolai’s middle name is Sebastian, is he—”
Gregor sighed heavily, knowing she would not stop until she had her answers. “I am his godfather; his second name was given to honor that.” There. Now she knew. His connection to the Alaskan Alpha was deeper than mere rank. Which was why failing Nikolai, as he had, was not something he could live with. The intense need to find the woman in the photograph, Eve Radcliff, was more than a deep sense of duty…it was a matter of deep pride for Gregor. As long as she was free, the knowledge that he had failed his Alpha would eat him up alive.
They left the bar and headed out into the blustery Montreal night, turning onto the street and making their way toward Matthew and in the black Chevy Tahoe.
“What now?” Aurora wanted to know, pulling the hood of her jacket up to warm her ears.
“Now you go back to Raven Falls,” he told her, “and I go to Newfoundland.”
“Alone?”
He could hear the doubt in her voice. “You are needed in Raven Falls, Aurora. This has nothing to do with you.”
“But you might need me!” She stopped walking, forcing him to stop as well and turn to her. He was aware of Matthew’s gaze watching them from inside the SUV. Her sielos draugus mate was rightfully protective of her, though, being only a half-blood Therion, he was strongly outmatched against any of his own kind. That fact never seemed to enter Matthew’s mind, however, especially when defending Aurora was on the table and, even without an ability to change, he had been proving his inner beast—though unable to manifest—was a powerful one.
“I get it, Gregor,” she was saying to him now, “I understand you think you somehow let Niko down by letting Eve get away. I feel the same way. I met her first, remember?” She was shaking her head, her moonlight blue gaze beseeching him. “We—none of us—had any idea what she was at the time. For all we knew, she was an innocent prisoner, like so many of our kind. We had no idea of what she was capable of… what she’d done…”
Gregor found he couldn’t meet her gaze. What she was saying might have been true for her, but… “She told me she was the one they sent to lure us in… the one they sent to destroy us when they were done…” even now, saying the words out loud, his stomach twisted with his deep sense of failure. He had been given an opportunity to stop Eve, and he’d let her slip from his grasp… mesmerized by her beauty, even his beast had been unable to do what was necessary.
“We were in the middle of a war!” Aurora exclaimed. She held a hand up to stave off Matthew when he would have gotten out of the SUV. “You were in fight-mode, Gregor. Defending your life and the Alpha. She was nothing more than a prisoner trying to escape. How were any of us to know that she was one of Radcliff’s experiments? That she’d been born and raised in captivity like an animal?”
“She is an abomination! I should have destroyed her when I had the chance!”
Aurora’s eyes widened at his angry outburst and he felt ashamed at his loss of control. He was a creature who prided himself on control. “And what of Matthew?” Aurora was asking now, the hurt his word had caused evident in her soft voice. “He was an experiment of Radcliff’s—while not raised in captivity, he was created there… experimented on all those years without his knowledge or consent. Is he an abomination too?”
He couldn’t bring himself to respond. He felt Aurora’s small hand in his and looked down at her. She was the smallest in their clan in stature only; her bravery and personality seemed too much for such a tiny creature. Her eyes searched his, probing and earnest. “We are Therion, Gregor. One blood, one race, whether we are all or some, as the sielos draugus whom we cherish and protect… you taught me that, old man. Perhaps now is the time for you to listen to your teachings—old, wise, and ancient one.”
Gregor couldn’t help the twitch in his lips that threatened to turn into a smirk as he listened to Aurora’s little speech. But she was right, of course. Eve was Therion, no matter what Radcliff had managed to do to her. But it was still his responsibility to find her and bring her in. Therion Law was absolute. Her crimes against her own kind were punishable by death. At the very least, the Dominai sought to learn from Eve… to find out exactly what it was that Radcliff had done to her. They expected her capture. Planned to glean as much information they possibly could from her. And then she would be destroyed—her dept for her crimes would be paid with her life.
Recently I attended the North Dakota Library Association’s Author Alley and I got to meet many talented local and regional authors. Karlene Tura Clark is one of them, and I was ever so glad she consented to be interviewed here.
Tell us a little about yourself and your background?
I’m a full time librarian with too many hobbies. Besides writing, I do many handcrafts and have a side business of painting and selling miniature figures for tabletop gaming. I’m married, no children, but with a very sassy African Grey Parrot that isn’t afraid to tell us what she wants.
How do you make time to write?
15-minute increments. I use at least my morning break at work to do writing. At some point on the weekends, I will block out an hour or two for editing purposes.
Do you believe in writer’s block?
Yes, but only in regards to the story being worked on. When that happens, I set the current project aside and just free write ideas for other stories, voices of other characters, or work on a “rap sheet” with information like you would give to the police if a character was reported missing.
Tell us a bit about the genre you write and why you love it.
Fantasy has always been a way for me to get away from things, whether that be what’s on the news, what’s happening around me, or simply for the sheer joy and magic of the story. My favorite author is Mercedes Lackey. Many of her creative ideas inspired me. She has books where elves are allergic to cold iron yet race cars, she’s done retellings of fairy tales, and she’s created the Heralds of Valdemar – Vanyel’s story was one of my favorite; I wore out three copies of the book when I was younger!
Fantasy always involves magic in some form, whether it’s low or high magic. In either case, there are rules and structure that consistently determine the use of abilities. High magic usually means there is a lot of magic with some world dependence on it, while low is just an element of the background of the story.
How are you publishing your recent book and why? (*e.g. Indie, traditional or both)
I have a short story published with Edge, but otherwise, I have done everything independently. The world is becoming more accepting of self-publishing, and doing so gives you greater independence in choosing cover art, design, and royalties. There are also cases where I have known authors that have been “burned” by some of their smaller publishers, which makes me a little nervous. However, I’m still interested in eventually doing a book with someplace like Tor or Orbit!
Are you an Introvert or Extrovert? How does this affect your work?
I’m an introvert. Extroverts tend to be more interested in conversation, engaging others. Introverts like me are people watchers. We observe before we engage. This ability has given me great ideas for stories over the years.
What is your favorite motivational phrase?
“Everything we hear is an opinion, not a fact. Everything we see is a perspective, not the truth” (Marcus Aurelius).
It has encouraged me to always consider the other side of situations while I’m writing – what would others think? What might my character have understood incorrectly? What are the results of that misunderstanding?
What advice would you give to aspiring writers?
Two things.
BIC-HOK: Butt in chair; hands on keyboard. I’ve heard so many people say “I want to write a novel, but I just don’t have time.” What that really means is you are not serious (yet) about doing it. Think how many times in your life you rearrange things to make time for something. As I said earlier, I often only have 15 minutes a day to write. That means I write. I set a timer. If I get interrupted, I stop the timer until I come back to it. If I get stuck on the current story, I write something else, I journal, I free write. Just… write! No excuses.
EDIT. Your first draft is never good. It doesn’t matter how many of your friends are impressed – it will still need polish. It will still need details. It will still need to clean up. Do the spellchecks, grammar checks, do a check for words you use A LOT, and have someone check for inconsistencies.
Do you have an excerpt you’d like to share with us?
From my latest book is Assassin’s Gift.
“At least he’s not dead, milord.” The voice was familiar, coming from someone sitting next to him.
“Bless the Lights for that, you idiot.” A man’s gruff voice barked. “What were you thinking leaving your mixtures about?” From the tone of the lord’s voice, the other had made a grave error in his judgment. “Remedial lessons, boy: he dies, and your life will be forfeit as well. You know the rules. Any errors are your sole responsibility.”
A violent tremor shook Aern as a coughing jag swept the entire frame of his eight-year-old body. He was turned to his side, just barely in time as everything in his stomach rushed out. He could barely catch a breath as wave after wave of retching emptied everything back out. It gurgled from his throat, bubbling as it left him to spray outward, running down his cheek, into his black hair.
Pulling his knees up, Aern tried to relieve the intense cramping in his stomach. As the fit finally passed, Aern opened his pale blue eyes and looked around. His vision was still hazy, but he could see the boy that had given him the treat.
Please welcome Author Idabelle Aylor to the Clog Blog. Idabelle, can you t
Sofey smiled, the backyard condo for June’s pet squirrel and magpie had been quite the project. 
Tell us a little about yourself and your background?
Home. 
Tell us a little about yourself and your background?
From my latest book is 
The Clog Blog 