Reluctant Cassandra – Southern Fiction Debut

Ellen Smith’s debut novel, Reluctant Cassandra, is not to be missed. The story is told with an ease and grace that makes it hard to put down, even though the subject matter tears at the heart strings. There cannot be anything more painful than losing a family member to a disease that takes their mind, but not their body. Not to mention, the added struggle of dealing with a community that feels they have been wronged.

Check out the tidbit below and be sure to add this title to your summer reading list!

Coming June 2015

Nothing much changes in historic Eagle Valley, Virginia. That’s a good thing for Arden McCrae. It’s easier to manage her visions of the future when there isn’t much to see. Arden would rather stay buried in the cool certainty that comes with stories of the past. Fortunately, running the local antique store and keeping up with the Eagle Valley Historical Society gives her plenty of history to hide behind.

 

When her aging parents are forced to sell their farm to pay for medical care, Arden sees big changes ahead. The sale threatens the historic status of Eagle Valley, and Arden’s own store is in peril. Meanwhile, her father’s rapidly advancing Alzheimer’s keeps him locked in a heartbreaking past. The rest of the McCrae family is left to make difficult decisions for the days to come.

The future that nobody wants is descending fast, and Arden must face the visions she’s always avoided. Soon, her town is divided over their historic status and her family is shattered by her father’s declining health. Arden will have to choose whether to fight to preserve the past or learn to embrace the future.

About the Author:

Ellen Smith is a freelance writer and editor, forging ahead into the world of fiction writing. When she isn’t fiddling with sentence structure or analyzing plot devices, she can be found reading, sewing, or avoiding housework. She lives with her family near Washington, D.C.

And a little more…

What inspired you to write this novel?

In some of my favorite parts of Virginia, the landscape is slowly changing from “mostly farms” to “mostly houses.” A few of the stories I’ve heard over the years left me very sympathetic to the family that had to sell, and also sympathetic to the surrounding area that would be drastically impacted by the change. The idea for Reluctant Cassandra was inspired by this conflict.

What particular rules of thumb do you follow when it comes to writing?

My day job is writing and editing education materials, so when I switch gears to work on fiction, I try to have a totally different outlook. In my nonfiction work, I’m very structured and analytical. When I’m working on a story, I want to have fun and see where my imagination takes me.

 

The Dead Days Journal – Coming Soon!

The daughter of a radical doomsday prepper, Leo Marrok spent her entire life preparing for the end. A skilled fighter and perfect marksman, Leo is her father’s second-in-command when Armageddon comes to pass. Together, they lead a group of survivors to a secure bunker deep in the Appalachian Mountains.

Vincent Marrok is willing to take extreme measures to repopulate their broken world. Leo’s refusal marks her as a traitor. With father and daughter at odds for the first time, their frail community is thrust into turmoil. Until the unthinkable happens, a blood-thirsty horde arrives. The impending attack will destroy all that they have worked for.

To protect her home and everything she believes in, Leo puts her faith in the arms of the enemy—a creature only rumored to exist—the one she calls Halloween. An alliance born out of necessity evolves into feelings Leo is ill-equipped to handle.

The Dead Days Journal is a post-apocalyptic story of love and family told through Leo Marrok’s first-hand account and the pages of Vincent’s personal journal, giving two very different perspectives on what it takes to survive.

Note: Bloggers and avid readers can go to Xpresso Book Tours for a chance to pre-review The Dead Days Journal

Revisiting the past…

The following is an excerpt from Butterfly Harvest, my first published novel.

SEPARATION

 My grandfather was never known for much. A coal miner by trade, in the sticks of the Appalachian mountain range, he found little glory in life. Viewed as the black sheep among the family of six he helped create, the man received little praise and even less respect. Just the mention of a family function and anchors would attach to the corners of his mouth. Charan Raines would escort my demanding grandmother on the five hour drive to Maryland, but he never said a word to anyone. Sitting alone, staring blindly into the TV, he ignored the trivial chatter of his supposed loved ones, before making an unnoticed escape to the outdoors.

It was during one of these family gatherings, my second to be exact, that I refused to let my grandmother hold me. According to my mom, I never liked being coddled and screamed bloody murder until my grandmother put me down. Then I crawled over to my grandfather and raised my arms high. Mom said it was the only time she recalled seeing him smile. And so it went; for years, he’d sit down, away from everyone, saying nothing, only to have me scramble up and attach myself to a leg or an arm, whatever I could reach at the time.

It wasn’t long before I joined my grandfather on his little escapes. He’d hold my hand to keep me from falling over loose rocks and twisted roots while trudging through the woods. I never minded our lack of conversation, I was just happy to be with him. But then I reached that inquisitive age. I started pointing to plants, to animals, asking question after question. My grandfather happily answered every one, he had all the answers. He knew everything there was to know about everything. When I ran out of things to point to, he told me stories of the Cherokee people, a heritage I didn’t know I was a part of until then.

Each story started the same way. We’d sit down under a tree, or by the river, clearing his throat he’d quietly say, “My Little Raven, with sapphire eyes, listen closely to the tales I tell.”

The first stories he shared with me were old legends, such as How the Red Bird got his Color and Why the Possum’s Tail is Bare. From there he went to myths about The First Fire and The Daughter of the Sun. He taught me the colors associated with each season, and the important celebrations and rituals they practiced in their daily lives. For a man who hardly spoke, storytelling was my grandfather’s specialty. It fascinated me, the way his eyes sparkled, and the faraway sound of his voice, how his body came alive in those moments, acting out dances, singing chants. I looked forward to those special days with him. No one but us and the woods we adored.

Late one Sunday morning, after a heavy rain, my grandfather showed up at our door unannounced and alone. Bypassing a typical greeting, my grandfather simply asked to take me for a walk. My father regarded us with a raised brow and a shake of his head as I darted across the room. Pushing my father aside I flew into my grandfather’s open arms.

“Just make sure she’s back by two. She’s got homework to do.” My father said, before taking a swig from his Sunday observance beer.

“Sure.” My grandfather grumbled before taking my hand in his. “I’ve got a new story for you.” The corner of his mouth twitched as his dark eyes fixed on the dirt trail leading into Fischer Woods.

The quiet hadn’t bothered me as we walked down the damp trail. It was the menacing shadows around his eyes. “Everything okay Grandpa?”

“Everything’s fine. I’m tired Little Raven, and you’re growing up so fast.”

“I’ll be thirteen in February.”

“Almost a teenager.” He said, looking down with a half grin.

“Almost.”

He released my hand as I hopped on a fallen log, and stood back to watch me successfully teeter across it. “Don’t let the world change you, Seanna.” My grandfather rarely referred to me by name. His voice sounded strange. Spinning around I caught my toe on the edge of a broken branch, sending me butt first to the wet ground.

Instead of helping me up, my grandfather plopped down next to me in the mud. “This is as good a place as any. Now my Little Raven, with sapphire eyes, listen carefully to the tale I’m going to tell.”

Snapping off the end of a stick, he hummed while sketching the outline of a butterfly in the mud. I watched anxiously, waiting for the story to begin.

“I know you have dreams, big dreams. As long as you are true, Little Raven, true to yourself and are willing to protect and care for Mother Earth, as she has protected and cared for you, the Great Spirit will make all your dreams come true.”

“How?”

“Well, in order for a wish to be granted, you must first capture a butterfly and whisper your wish upon its wings. When you release the butterfly, it is so happy to be free again that the butterfly flies to the heavens, carrying your wish to the Great Spirit, who grants your secret desire.”

“Really?” I quickly scanned the grass for any signs of life. “If I had a butterfly now, I’d wish for more days out here with you.”

When I turned back to my grandfather his eyes were closed, his jaw, quivering. I pressed my hand to his shoulder and moved to kneel in front of him, waiting for him to see me. His jaw stilled but he kept his eyes shut. “No, I’m an old man,” he said with the shake of his head. “Save your wishes for important things. Never waste them.”

“If I want to wish for more time, than I will.” Getting to my feet I marched off in search of anything with wings. “It’s my wish.”

I left my grandfather sitting in the mud, while I wandered around the woods. He’s mad that I want to spend more time with him. How can he not want to spend more time with me? The only time he laughs is with me, it’s the only time he smiles. Even Mom says so. Why doesn’t he want to smile anymore?

After an hour or more of searching I finally gave up hope that my grandfather would come looking for me. He must be furious.

I made my way back to the fallen log. Only my grandfather wasn’t there.

While waiting for him to return, I picked at a piece of bark with a rust colored smear, until I heard my father yelling my name.

Interested in reading more? Click HERE for additional chapters or to purchase a copy for yourself. Thanks for reading!

 

 

 

 

Saying Goodbye

There is nothing worse than saying goodbye to a dear friend. In this case, it’s a ten year relationship with the coolest fur-buddy I have ever known. Several months ago I awoke to deep purrs and a wet nose in my face and came up with the idea to write a short story from a cat’s point-of-view. Maxx will be missed like no other!

Here’s the story he inspired…

 

DEATH: THROUGH A CAT’S EYE

Hours ago they attempted to pull me away, but she said she liked the feel of my weight against her side. So, that’s where I stay until the very end.

My eyes can’t release the tears the others cry, but that doesn’t mean I’m any less crushed. I love her, too.

The sobs continue as I move from her side to rest my head on her chest. This is a familiar spot. Almost every night of my life I slept here, listening to the beat of her heart and the soft puffs of air move in and out of her lungs. But everything is quiet beneath my ear.

Where will I sleep now?

“You need to get Sax, in order for them to move her body,” the girl that slipped me peanut butter says to him.

I dig my claws into the blanket.

He knuckles a falling tear before leaning over with arms open. There’s a warning in my eyes, but he’s not paying attention. The hands reaching for me never touch fur.

“Ouch!” He pulls away with a curse and inspects the bloody scratch marks. He turns to me. This time when he looks, he sees. He understands.

“Oh God, she’s left us both, hasn’t she.” He crumples beside the bed and lifts her limp hand to his cheek. “What are we going to do, Sax?”

I can’t answer the way he does, so I clean the mixture of blood and tears that’s drips down his arm to hers. The corners of his mouth lift as he gives my head a quick rub.

A clatter of metal and plod of heavy boots alert me to the people who are about to enter the house. I crouch, pressing my body closer to hers. They’re here for her. I hate change, and her leaving will be the worst kind–permanent.

Towering strangers with blank expressions stand in the doorway. They smell funny. There’s a loud clank as a hard case drops with a startling boom. Raised voices, urgent cries…there’s so much noise. I want to stand my ground, I don’t want to leave her, but the commotion’s too much. I’m frightened.

I see him stand up to address the strangers, and before I realize what happening, I’m in his arms and he’s walking out of the room.

The strangers are going to take her away.

I twist and howl until he loses his grip, and then I run and take cover from the chaos. The one I love most is about to disappear forever. She’s the only one who truly cares for me. He has rules, rules that she has broken for me. Now he’ll insist that I stay off the furniture and ban me from sleeping on the bed. Will he even remember to feed me with her gone?

Hours, maybe days pass before I finally venture out of my hiding spot. There’s old food in my bowl, dried-out and crusty. At least he left something. It stinks, bad. The whole house smells different, her scent lingers, but it’s not here. Not really.

I hear a soft whimper and move from the kitchen to the living room. It’s dark. He’s sitting on the couch with his head in his hands. He hurts too. I don’t want to go to him, but I do, because I think she would have wanted me to.

At first he doesn’t notice me sniffing his toes or the press of my head against his leg. So, I force a single purr.

“Hey, there you are. Guess you’re pretty hungry.” He stands and almost trips over me as he stumbles toward the kitchen. I follow. Despite my sorrow, I want food. He scrapes the dish but doesn’t clean it. The water in my bowl is stale, it’s been there awhile, and he doesn’t bother to replace it. But the fresh food makes my mouth water and I dig in as soon as the dish touches the floor.

He leans against the counter watching me eat. Is he deciding what to do with me? Will he throw me out? I eat faster. This could be my last easy meal. No, wait… I should eat slower, bide my time. When I glance up from my dinner, his eyes are closed. I doubt he’s sleeping but I seize the opportunity. He can’t get rid of what he can’t see. I hear him call my name as I make my way back to my secret hiding place. I ignore him and curl into myself, warm but alone.

When I emerge the next day, stacks of brown squares line the hallway. Through the dense particles of cardboard I smell her. Inside are her things. I attack the box; pouncing, scratching and biting. I create a pile of scraps but make no progress freeing her belongings.

I creep through the bedroom door, her scent is stronger in here. I watch as he dumps a drawer full of her clothing on the bed. The stack is too tall and some items topple over the side to the floor.

He turns around when I yell at him to stop. “Sax, you want to help?” he says as he replaces the empty drawer, and pulls another out. I leap on the bed, climb the teetering pile, and sit boldly on top.

At first I say nothing, just watch as he swings the drawer around, ready to pour its contents over my head. A fuzzy sock tumbles from the partially up-turned drawer before he realizes I’m sitting here. “Hey, what are you doing up there?”

We stare at each other for a moment. Finally I tilt my head still trying to translate his meaning. Did ‘up there’ imply to my being on the bed or on the pile of clothes he’s too easily discarding. I don’t wait to find out. Grabbing the sock in my mouth, I flee the scene. My new mission–save whatever I can of hers.

On my fourth trip into the bedroom the squint of his eyes tells me he’s getting suspicious. He stops what he’s doing and watches as I casually clean my paws. It’s almost as if he’s daring me to steal something else. I do.

I grab the closest garment and hightail it out of the room. He chases me until we reach the basement stairs. He pauses, fumbling for the light switch. By the time he finds it I’ve already disappeared. His descent down the stairs is slow and methodical as he clicks his tongue and calls ‘kitty, kitty’. This is a special call that she mastered long ago, but he never did. I ignore his attempt to get me out into the open and wait for him to leave my territory.

I sit very still as he moves closer to my hiding spot. He’s talking to himself, something about a tail. He’s an idiot. Any time now he’s going to give up and go back upstairs.

A loud screech echoes, then a shadow falls over me. I scan the area for the cover that once was… He moved the couch! I’m totally exposed. I dart to the right and skitter around the corner before he can get his hands on me. For a long second it’s quiet. Then I hear my name… “Sax, Oh come on. Kitty, kitty.”

Since he’s begging I return, but keep my distance in case he tries anything funny. “Hey cat, what are you doing with her stuff?” He’ll never understand. There’s no point in hanging around, so I race up the stairs and quickly search for a new hiding place.

The next day I’m drawn out by the smell of fresh tuna. Before the idea of a trap registers I’m in the kitchen gulping down the delectable meat. I know he’s there. He’s watching me again. It’s too late to run, so I eat more. He lets me finish the plate before he scoops me up and carries me into the living room.

Next to the fireplace is a small wooden enclosure. Inside are her pillow, fuzzy socks and a soft tee-shirt. He’s made this… kept her things… just for me.

He places me inside the handmade box and smiles before kneeling down. His hands gently stroke my fur from my head to my tail. He wants to soothe me, thinks this offering will make everything better. What’s to keep him from tossing the box, with me in it, right out the front door? Nothing, that’s what!

On the third rub of his hand I hiss. Claws fully extended I lash out at his hand and flee back into the basement. I miss his skin on purpose. It’s a warning, not an attack. We’re not friends. Not yet anyway.

I won’t be fooled that easily, he has to earn my trust. He has to love me unconditionally, the same way she did.

© Sandra R. Campbell

Attention Readers & Writers!

On Friday, October 10, 2014 I will be speaking on two author panels at the Creatures, Crimes and Creativity Conference in Hunt Valley, MD.

2:00 pm – Writing romantic suspense

3:00 pm – Using the 5 senses to engage readers

For those unfamiliar with the #C3Conference, this is where fans and writers of mystery, suspense, thriller, horror, sci-fi, fantasy and paranormal rub elbows. Three days of various panels, workshops and mix and mingles that are of interest to both reader and writer.

Don’t miss out on the spine-tingling fun! Sign up HERE!

You can also follow me on Twitter @Dead_Sassy. I’ll be live-tweeting throughout the event to give you a behind-the-scenes peek.

In preparation and celebration of the upcoming event, Butterfly Harvest and Dark Migration will discounted at Amazon.com. Grab your copies today!

BUTTERFLY HARVEST (BOOK 1)

Normally $2.99, now only $.99. Limited time offer.

Seanna Raines only wish is to escape her miserable, barely-functioning family. Samuel is an ancient being, bored and alone, his only desire is to create another immortal – successfully. When Samuel rescues Seanna from an altercation with her alcoholic father, Seanna believes he is the perfect man. Just the scent of him has her head swimming in a beautiful fog. But when she accepts his first gift, a delicate black butterfly, her life is irreversibly changed.

 

DARK MIGRATION (BOOK 2)

Normally $3.99, now only $1.99. Limited time offer.

Seanna Raines is on a journey of self-discovery. Only her search does not include college applications or finding a cool summer job. After killing Samuel Bolvayne, the ‘man’ she fears and loves, Seanna is not looking for who she is, but rather what she will become. To survive, she needs to find out what her transformation means: super strength, the ability to smell human emotions, and an ever-increasing need to devour human souls. Seanna travels to Samuel’s earthly homeland, along the coast of South Africa, in search of answers. Here, she encounters several of his failed experiments, who claim to know the truth. These abominations lead her into a sinister world of chaos and destruction, where the birthplace of evil is revealed.

 

 

Editorial Review for Dark Migration!

Dark Migration by Sandra R. Campbell
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Editorial Review courtesy of TBR – topbookreviewers.com

Are you afraid of the dark? Dark Migration starts out with Seanna Raines reliving her memories of a fresh killing. The story begins with a twist and keeps you on your toes the whole time. Seanna is not your average girl. She was created by Samuel whom she killed by sucking out his soul and then gained the souls of everyone he in turn killed. The question is, did she kill in self defense and will she kill again? Unfortunately, her body is starting to crave souls with greater intensity. Her guilt about the metamorphosis she is going through and killing her “maker” create conflicting emotions. She is not sure whether she loved Samuel in the true sense of the word and her fears drive her on a journey to find out more about her own creation and Samuel’s past. Her Dark Migration is fascinating and Sandra R. Campbell, the author, leads the reader into this adventure with ease.

Campbell forms visuals with words effortlessly and weaves a storyline that is scary. She creates a tension with her unique characters that immediately captures interest. The plot is a dark fantasy lover’s dream come true. The humor, budding sexual awareness, experimentation, and growth that Seanna experiences engages the reader more and more throughout the novel. The introduction of secondary characters is seamless.

Seanna’s struggles take her to South Africa where she uncovers more of Samuel’s history. It is dark and, as she meets more of his creations, she realizes there are no easy answers to her confusing emotions. Not just emotions, but something is changing deep inside her through this journey. Not only does she discover that Samuel has made more than one creation, but meeting them and trying to survive leave her with a terrifying choice.

As Seanna continues her migration into darkness, she struggles with her humanity and realizes that there are people she cares deeply about. Will she retain that humanity or will her natural instincts turn her? You will have to read this treat to find out. This is an author that needs to hit the reading radar in a big way. Dark Migration is a fabulous novel and I am anxiously awaiting the sequel to find out what happens next! – TBR topbookreviewers.com

View all my reviews

Meet My Character – WIP Blog Tour

The lovely and talented D.A. Rhine, author of Vampires on the Chesapeake Series, invited me to participate in the WIP Blog Tour. She is a fellow MD writer with a passion for romance and the paranormal. You can visit her blog HERE and check out her books HERE.

KEEP READING  FOR A SPECIAL GIVEAWAY OFFER  FROM D.A. RHINE AND SANDRA R. CAMPBELL!!

Tour questions for my current Work-In-Progress:

What is the name of your main character? Is she fictional or a historic person?

Leo (short for Leona) Marrok is a kick-ass fictional character.

When and where is the story set?

Mother Nature releases her wrath on mankind in the year 2021. Draught, flood, famine and disease decimate the human population. The modern world is in ruin, and only the strongest will survive the days that follow. This is where my story begins, several years after ‘the end’. The setting is a bunker in the Appalachian Mountains, where the Marrok family and the survivors they’ve taken in along the way, have endured extinction and become a thriving community–for the time being.

What should we know about Leo Marrok?

Leo is the daughter of Vincent Marrok, an avid doomsday-prepper, who taught her the rules of survival at an early age. She fired her first gun at age six and became a perfect marksman by age nine. In high school, Leo ran track, studied martial arts and spent countless hours in self-defense classes. At twenty-two, Leo knows how to stay alive. She has a strong will and a big heart.

What is the main conflict? What messes up Leo’s life?

Ah, there are many conflicts, daily life and family being the most difficult. Leo’s real problem arises the night she finally gives her heart to the man she loves. When her father finds out, he demands that she do the one thing she fears most in the world–bear a child. This sends to her straight into the clutches of a creature only rumored to exist. The one called ‘Halloween’ reveals a new threat, and claims to be all that stands between her, and her family’s continued existence. Without his help everyone she loves will be slaughtered for food. Leo will do anything to make sure they survive, but not all are happy about the enemy she’s brought into the bunker. Halloween and Leo must face unrelenting obstacles and defiance from the very people they are trying to protect.

What is the personal goal of the character?

Leo’s goal is to survive, so she can protect the people she loves. This includes her innocent baby brother, who is ill-equipped to handle the cruel world they must endure.

Is there a working title for this novel, and can we read more about it?

The Dead Days Journal is a post-apocalyptic story of fear, family and love told through two points of view: Leo Marrok’s first-hand accounts and the pages of her father’s personal journal, giving two very different perspectives on what survival entails. Here is a random sneak peak…

“Stop saying you’re sorry.”

When I stood to go Ben grabbed my arm. I didn’t pull away, just looked down at him with a horrible sadness ripping through my heart. “Let go.”

Ben released his grip as a single tear escaped his eye and fell. “I love you.”

Not only did I not say it, but I never even looked back, I simply walked away. But my emotions wouldn’t let me stay quiet for long. As soon as I exited the back door I ran through the cave opening into the early dawn and down to the mountain spring-fed river. Not bothering to take off my mother’s treasured dress, I plunged into the icy-cold river and screamed through the pain.

I tried to ignore the throbbing ache in my extremities and swam to the middle where I couldn’t touch bottom and the current was strong. I floated on my back and let the river take me away. Above, the pink hues of dawn were brightening, and I watched the brilliant night stars dissolve into nothing. If only for a short time, I wished to feel nothing, be nothing. At least now my hands and feet had completely disappeared.

“Leo! What are you doing?” I didn’t have to look to know it was Lincoln. I recognized the high-pitched squeals, and swam toward shore.

Damn, kid, what are you doing outside at this hour?

Once I started to move again, my arms and legs were no longer unfeeling. My blood was moving as I waded back to shore, sharp piercing stabs replaced the numb ache.

“Why are you outside alone?”

A cool morning breeze raised fresh goose bumps. Chilled straight through to the bone, my teeth chattered like a tightly-wound plastic toy.

“I had a bad dream. You weren’t in bed.” Lincoln pulled a brown plaid scarf from around his neck and handed it to me. The scarf wasn’t much, but it was enough for me to get a spot or two dry.

“Come on, I’ll race you inside and you can tell me all about it.”

Lincoln didn’t move. He stood there, staring past me. I turned around to see Jack crouched on the opposite side of the river. His black hair was shiny wet, as was the rest of his nude, hard-coiled body. Another chill ran through me; it had nothing to do with the cold. Jack’s eyes narrowed to dark slits as he watched me take hold of my brother’s pale hand to lead him away from the riverbank. “Come on Linc, let’s run together.”

When can we expect the book to be published?

I’m currently working on some editing tweaks. Since my goal is to have this novel traditionally published, it could take some time to find the right partnership.

Enter for a chance to win a digital copy of Vampires on the Chesapeake (book 1) by D. A. Rhine – leave a comment on her blog and let her know I sent you!

 

Special giveaway!!!

 

 

 

For a chance to win digital copies of my dark fantasy series (Butterfly Harvest & Dark Migration) follow my blog and leave a comment below! 

Continue the tour on June 16th with… 

WATERFRONT WRITERS

http://waterfrontwriters.com/

&

DESIREE SMITH-DAUGHETY

http://desireesmithdaughety.wordpress.com

 

 

 

 

 

 

Interview with a Vampire

Val Okhovat is one of many monsters living in the pages of Dark Migration. As a rare treat he’s taken some time to sit down and talk with Maryland author D.A. Rhine.

Check out their conversation here: Interview with a Vampire

An excerpt on Val:

Val stood by the counter with a glass of red wine in his hand. There was well over six feet of him and every inch covered in hard muscle. His hair was cut so short it was a black shadow creeping over his skull, giving him a hard, menacing look. Narrow sunglasses hid his eyes – the same way I hide mine – and it looked as if his chiseled jaw and tight lips were made of solid marble. Everything about him screamed “man,” from his stance to his aura all the way to his black-tailored clothing and heavy-soled boots. Unbelievable my memory of him still remains utterly blank.

We stood silent, staring, while I tried to detect a hint of thought, an image or some scent of emotion, but there was nothing. Empty just like Officer Kelley. Val took another sip of his wine and removed his sunglasses to reveal mismatched eyes, one black as coal and the other light brown, as he continued to eyeball me.

Kendrick cleared his throat rather loudly. “Val, Seanna. Seanna, Val. Sorry Val but she doesn’t remember meeting you. Our girl isn’t much of drinker, and well, as a result has a case of inebriation amnesia.”

The corners of Val’s mouth twisted, his lips cracking open slightly as he extended an extremely large hand in my direction. “Val Okhovat. The pleasure is mine. Again.”

 

 

The Slump Hump

At times writers feel like they are standing in the shadows of a towering mountain with no way to climb it. I call this the Slump Hump. It is the moment you realize book sales have wandered off and you do not know if they will ever return. Your Inspiration Well is dry and Motivation just hopped a plane to Katmandu. Not to mention the response to your recent batch of query letters is a cricket serenade.

I have been staring at the Slump Hump and scratching my head for a couple months, unable to find my way over, around, under, or through the mounting obstacle. But I refuse to give up, because giving up is a quick path to failure. Instead I turn to a fellow writer, Desiree Smith-Daughety. Des and I are collaborating on a project, Two Weeks to Rites, which surprisingly is something I have worked on lately, but it is the only thing. To get my focus and energy back on my novels I have joined Des in a weekly Word Count Challenge. If I fail to meet my word count I am to suffer the pains of sit-ups and push-ups. One of each for every word I do not write. So, if I come up 500 words short on my weekly challenge, that is 500 sit-ups and 500 push-ups I have to sweat out. Sometimes the creative mind needs a little physical punishment. If my novel pages remain blank I will at least have six-pack abs and sculpted arms to show for my effort.

Abs  vs. Pages

Follow me on Twitter and Facebook for updates. The winner will be reveal April 20th!

Top 5 Collaboration Quotes

• I think it is in collaboration that the nature of art is revealed. ~ Steve Lacy

• Politeness is the poison of collaboration. ~ Edwin Land

• If I have seen farther than others, it is by standing upon the shoulders of giants. ~ Isaac Newton

• Every sin is the result of a collaboration. ~ Lucius Annaeus Seneca 

• Unity is strength… when there is teamwork and collaboration, wonderful things can be achieved. ~ Mattie Stepanek

Writing is known to be a solitary task and yet literary collaborations between authors are remarkably frequent. Grimm’s Fairy Tales set the standard for literary collaborations in 19^th Century Europe. This grisly collection of short stories has stood the test of time and proves that writing collaborations can be successful. Since the Grimm Brothers there have been famous joint efforts, dynamic writing duos like: Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child, Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett, P.C. Cast and Kristin Cast. Even the King, as in Stephen King, partnered up with Peter Straub in the Talisman, which is why I recently entered into my first writing collaboration with fellow author Desiree Smith-Daughety. Our experimental project Two Weeks to Rites is a ghostly web series written exclusively for Waterfront Writers.com.  You’ve probably seen it mentioned here a time or two. Maybe you’re reading Two Weeks to Rites, maybe you’re not…. But hopefully you’ll take a moment to investigate what we expect will be an ongoing writing collaboration.