Sunday, August 17, 2014

Sunday Musings: August 17 2014



For this week we'll go simple
As a writer, what do you fear.
Me? I fear success...







Yes, I fear success. What if I write a book and it actually sells and reaches readers? What then? What if I'm a fluke writer? What if...

I believe every story starts with a 'what if' or a version of this thought. We writers run with that thought and develop the world and characters which match it. Hopefully, listening to them. What if I have no more what ifs?

Worse, what happens if you, the reader, want more?

I can venture out of my comfort zone for everyone around me. Venturing out for myself scares the dickens out of me.



A simple answer for a simple question.  I fear not writing well or that a book or story will fail to move or really interest me.




Writing has become a hobby, rather addictive at that. It's a great release that allows the many facets within me a release.  I fear the day it's no longer fun or enjoyable. 



What do I fear as a writer?

That I will no longer be able to write.

All through school, I was the 'odd kid'. Never fitting in with any group, always hopeless at sports.  The only thing I ever felt I was ever any good at was writing.

I fear ending up with Alzheimers, or some other brain disease that will take away my ability to create stories.  I met a man once who'd been a poet until he'd had a stroke, and his brain had been affected in such a way that afterwards he was no longer able to write poems.  I've heard about drugs to treat things like epilepsy that affect concentration and creativity.

I fear such things more than I fear death.  Death is inevitable, and will come to us all.  But the concept of still being alive, but unable to write? That scares me.  I believe I was put on the earth to be a writer.  If I can no longer write, there would be no point to my existence.




As a historical novelist I fear getting even the smallest historical factl wrong. The shelves of my bookcases are bowed with the weight of books for historical research and I borrow many library books to increase my knowledge. I also fear negative reviews of my novels.


DAWN KNOX, author

As a writer, I aspire to entertain, uplift, sometimes to provoke thought but I never wish to offend. So my fear is that readers might misinterpret something I've written and be offended. Occasionally, whilst speaking to someone, I pause, trying to find the correct words and they jump in and finish my sentence for me with either the opposite of what I meant or something completely different, showing we are not on the same wavelength at all. I then have a chance to explain further but when I've written something, I don't know how it's been received and have no opportunity to explain my meaning.

JAMI GRAY, author

Oh man, this one can cause chills, Chris. As a writer I fear that my next story will be boring...trite...predictable and then the world will implode and I'll be finished as an artist. I'm sure I'm not the only writer out there who faces this, but honestly I read all the time (when not writing, raising family or working) and the amount of fantastic stories is astounding. So to kick my deepest fear in the butt, every book I write, I set a personal challenge--how can I do a deeper POV on this one? can I surprise my characters and readers with this plot twist? this time can my character break a rule and get away with it? I've found this is my best bet on keeping my worst nightmare busy elsewhere.



My greatest fear is I'll run out of time and leave this world with things undone.

 


Dear reader, thank you again for joining us and we’d love to hear from you. Keep smiling and have a fun week. Never stop believing. See you next Sunday…nothing better than being cozy in bed with some Musings.

If you have a question or comment you’d like us to muse upon, do not hesitate to contact me Christine Steeves-Speakman  at MuseChrisChat@gmail.com

Monday, August 11, 2014

Hi all,

Sam and the Beast of Bodmin Moor is only .99cents at the moment on Amazon.com. Can you all share the link for me please. Oh, and Lea, could you run up a little piece and share it on some of the FB sites I've seen you promoting on, please. Let's strike whilst there's a bargain to be had. lol.

http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=sam%20and%20the%20beast%20of%20bodmin

Warmest

Mike

M. P. Ward

Sunday, August 10, 2014

Free Author Promo

Hi all,

I thought you might be interested in joining this free promo site, take a look and see what you think. This is the link to my book, Sam and The Sea Witch. They've placed it in the thriller section. http://authorcorner.wordpress.com/thriller-novels/

Mike

M. P. Ward

Saturday, August 9, 2014

Sunday Musings: August 10 2014

Sunday Musings - Read Us Any Time


Every story has a morning, a start to the day...a rising of the morning/sun.

Even in space there's some morning view. Even in a horror story, morning comes.

Let's give our Musings Readers a look at how we write this view/scene.



  MARGARET FIELAND, author


From the POV of the main character, Marc, in the fantasy I started recently:

I woke at dawn to a shaft of sunlight striking my eyelids through the heap of branches we'd placed at the mouth of the cave. Throwing off my sleeping furs, I shrugged into my fur parka and stumbled outside. Eric stood a short way off, and he turned and smiled at me.

The day was clear and cold, and the snow fall from the last two days lay thick on the ground. I'd neglected to put on my boots, so I returned inside, pulled them on, and grabbed my snowshoes.

Eric stuck his head into the cave. "How's your leg?"

"Better." My leg, where the wolf had clawed it open, still ached, but I strapped on the snowshoes and followed Eric into the winter morning, determined not to be a burden any longer.


M.P. WARD, author

I thought I might share this little clip from the YA book Sam and The Sea Witch. I hope you all enjoy it.

Saturday morning found Sam’s little sister, Ellie, pirouetting around the foot of his bed. She flung out her arms and kicked up her legs while tiptoeing back and forth slowly around the room.

“Can you watch?” she asked, after shaking Sam from a surprisingly comfortable sleep.

He pretended not to notice, hoping she might glide back out the bedroom door.

But she shook him again with a determined expression on her little face.

“Sam, can you watch me please,” she asked again.

She must be practising. Sam smiled into Ellie’s bright eyes.

She was wearing her white tutu, a leotard, and long white stockings. She was proud of something she had learned and wanted to show off for him. Sam smiled again, encouraging her.

“Go on, Ellie. Show me,” Sam agreed, surprising himself.

A few days earlier, he would have growled, pulled the covers over his head, and shouted at her to get out. He rolled his head on the pillow, following her as she moved around the room like a clumsy fairy, swaying this way and that.

“What do you think?” she asked.

“Oh, yes, that’s really good. I can tell you’ve been practising.”

“I have. All morning,” she explained, still moving around the room.

“What do you mean all morning?”

Light shone through the curtain, filling the room with a dim luminosity. It was definitely after sunrise, but he was unsure what Ellie meant by the term all morning.

Mum came into the room, wearing her dowdy orange dress with a white apron tied around her waist. She always wore the apron on house-dusting day. Her face looked fresh and alive, and her brown eyes gleamed as if all was right in her world. But Mum was like that most of the time anyway, even when it wasn’t.

“Morning, Sam.” Mum smiled. Their eyes met before she sauntered over to the curtains, spreading them back in a whooshing motion, allowing the bright sunlight in.

“Mum...what you think of my ballet?” Ellie asked, her arms reaching upward and then down in an arc. “Do you think I’m good enough to go to ballet lessons?”

Mum walked over to the bed and looked down at Sam. She touched his forehead and cheek gently with the back of her hand. “Em… Oh yes dear, I’m sure we can sort something out,” she replied.


DAWN KNOX, author

This passage doesn't come from 'Daffodil and the Thin Place'. I wrote it in response to your question but it could easily fit in at the beginning of chapter eight:

"Daffodil," the voice whispered, "are you awake?"

"Yes," I replied, although the word came out more like a sigh. There was nothing more to say and besides, my throat was hoarse from crying.

I'd been awake all night, disbelief, fear and despair had made it impossible to sleep and the cold hadn't helped either. The threadbare blanket I'd wrapped round my shoulders was useless against the chilly draughts that blew across the room.

"Daffodil, you need to get up, the day starts really early here and Mrs. Hornsby's already downstairs, I can hear her sweeping. You'll be in trouble if you don't get up..." the voice paused. We both knew I was in deep trouble whether I got up or not.

The total blackness that had terrified me last night was turning grey, diluted by the dreary, dawn light. It crept into the room, draining the colour from everything.

"Please, Daffodil..."

I sighed.

I really had no choice. I was lost in a world that existed over a hundred years before I was born and last night, my only chance of ever returning home had been ruined by a band of graverobbers. And what's more, there was a girl downstairs, who would soon be dead unless I did something. 

But there was no time to think. Mrs. Hornsby was outside the door, calling for me to get up. And she didn't sound very happy...



Here is an excerpt from my novel Aizai the Forgotten:


It was early morning when Deliria sang a strident symphony outside Wolfdon’s door. He scrambled to his feet, the room blurring in the dizziness of his sudden awakening. A crisp orange light laced with crystalline red fell in a long shaft through the window, accompanied by a cool morning breeze that hummed gently, almost apologizing for Deliria’s outcry.


“Let him sleep, Deliria.” He heard Paulo speaking in the hall, though he thought that Paulo seemed far too lenient of Deliria’s nefarious ways.



CHUCK BOWIE, author

How did my protagonist greet the morning in Bucharest, Romania? Like this:


The dogs and children playing in the street awakened him.

Yaps and growls floated through the open window, riding on bleached morning sunlight, sliding over the ochre window ledge. So early in the morning for kids to be out. I wonder if they're orphans.

The air was so still he couldn’t determine if they were playing just beneath his window, or across the boulevard in front of the Leitha, a disease of a hotel. But he was not at the Leitha; he was in the Majestic, four stars, and second best in Romania. No sense being pretentious. He had learned that if you made a living as a contract thief named Sean Donovan, it was best not to let your surroundings draw any more attention to you than necessary.


My character, Sean Donovan, really likes the morning. It means he's survived the night.



MARY WAIBEL, author

Here's an excerpt from DIFFERENT KIND OF KNIGHT, where Brody watches the sun rise.

Brody flexed his fingers and frowned as they brushed against soft leather. He opened his eyes, confused by the dim room and the warmth radiating beside him. After a moment, his gaze focused on Rielle, and he remembered where they were.

Carefully, he shifted away, not ready to wake her yet. The dark circles under her eyes were fainter this morning, but the fact they were still visible revealed she needed more sleep.

He looked out the open door, watching as the sky went from inky black to purple to blue. When the warmth of the sun’s rays drifted into the shack, he knew he had to wake her. But first, he needed to send a message to his men.





Excerpt from It's About Time: From Now On


Morning through Erin's eyes

     By sunrise, long thin fingers of daylight pushed their way through the broken windows of the old church building and found each of us wide awake and ready to leave. Our departure from this place couldn’t come too soon to suit me. Bayard seemed to share my feelings. His breath visible in the cold morning air, he shifted sideways, hooves striking against the cold stone floor of the old church.

     Once again, our presence disturbed the black birds roosting above on the heavy wooden beams. They squawked in protest and streamed through the broken windows, where what remained of the stained glass was made vivid by the first rays of sun. Their flight led them upwards into the sky, its brilliant pinks and blues far surpassing the man-made beauty.

     Early morning has always been my favorite time. With sunrise, darkness retreats as though in silent acceptance, secure with the knowledge it will return. A new day begins, and it is one fresh with endless possibilities. Like a blank canvas it beckons, luring me to seize it with both hands and make it into something worthwhile, something memorable.

     Did this morning hold the promise of being the same kind of day?





Dear reader, thank you again for joining us and we’d love to hear from you. Keep smiling and have a fun week. Never stop believing. See you next Sunday…nothing better than being cozy in bed with some Musings.

If you have a question or comment you’d like us to muse upon, do not hesitate to contact me Christine Steeves-Speakman  at MuseChrisChat@gmail.com