Write It Like . . .

In my case, according to I Write Like, it’s Anne Rice.  At least when I dumped in a huge swatch of the epic fantasy WIP.  I freely admit, I’ve never read any of Anne Rice’s work.  Guess I’m going to have to now.

Then I dropped in a bit of one of my Greylands pieces.  In that genre, it appears I write like Stephen King.  Bad, Kathi, I’ve not read any of his work either.  Well, On Writing, which I’m still not all the way through.  BUT, I have watched several movies made from Mr. King’s books so I’m more familiar with his work than that of Anne Rice.

Finally, I popped in a darker piece of the unnamed urban fantasy WIP.  For that, I write like William Gibson.  To be honest. . . had too google him.  Had absolutely no idea who he is or what he’s written.

So, to answer the first question; no, I don’t have sooo much time on my hands that I just flitter around the www until I find stuff like this.  I actually stumbled upon it via Twitter and the illustrious T. James.  I have no idea how they decide who you write like, but it looks like I’m in fairly good company.

Wonder if I can put this in my query letter?

Write on!

Review of Witch Hunt

Power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.  ~John Emerich Edward Dalberg Acton, first Baron Acton (1834–1902)

Leave your preconceived notions of witches at Samantha Steven’s doorstep and run away.  Quickly.  You won’t find any nose-wiggling, superfluous witches within the pages of Devin O’Branagan’s Witch Hunt.  What you will find is a beautifully woven tale of a family unable to avoid the pitfalls of power, and a glimpse at what happens when people of influence misuse their position.

Interspersed with tales giving us the history of the Hawthorne family, the main story of a modern day witch hunt is eerie in its realism.  There’s no escaping the cold knowledge that such a thing could actually happen in our own time, making the Salem Witch Hunts look like a schoolyard brawl by comparison.  As though caught in a spell of the Hawthorne’s making, you’ll be hard pressed to put the book down until the final page.  The characters, flawed as they may be, are captivating in their three-dimensionality, and Ms. O’Branagan does a superb job of weaving the family’s history into their current fall, as well as clearing up many misconceptions surrounding the word ‘witch’.

Witch Hunt will keep you on the edge of your seat, dreading to turn the page.  But turn you must.  Right up to the surprise ending that left me with one word.  “Wow.”

Write on!

Teetering on the Brink

(Wherein I succumb to some self-indulgent whining, and tongue in cheek sarcasm — because I can.)

Last time we looked, I was standing on the precipice preparing to jump. 

The wind whipped around me as I stood on the edge.  I had everything I needed, and faced the leap with a combination of excitement, terror, anticipation . . . did I say terror?  All that remained was the jump itself.  I peered down –

“Hey, Schwengel.”

I edged a little closer.  Should I get a running start, or just throw myself into the unknown, spreading my arms like wings?  Or maybe a graceful, rolling tumble?

“You might want to look at this first.”

I turned to glance over my shoulder.  The Sage of the South stood there, he held my manuscript in one hand, and gestured me over to him with the other.

“But, I’m all set to leap,” I complained, without moving.

“Fine.”  He shrugged, and flicked the manuscript closed.  “I’ll meet you at the bottom.  You can buy me a drink, and on the way back up I’ll explain why nobody caught you.”

“Why nobody caught — but I stuck a fork in it!  I proclaimed it done!  I.  Am.  Done.”

“Shee-ure, if you want to settle for ‘okay’, strictly your choice.”

He turned away, and I looked for a rock to throw at his head.  How dare he?  The climb had been hell; years of scrabbling up the slopes, inch by inch.  How many times had I slid backwards, scraping my knuckles raw, only to dig in and continue on until finally reaching the summit?  And now — NOW — he calls me away?  He waits till I get HERE to tell me not to jump yet?

Let me tell you, this writing thing is no walk in the park.  If you’re thinking of being a writer, and you haven’t started, don’t!  Run.  Run away as fast as you can and don’t look back.

(That was a test.  If you just threw your pen and notebook in the garbage and made like a rabbit, you failed.  If, like me, you absolutely can’t stop, even if you want to, congratulations — I think.)

“What you have here is good,” the Sage continued.  “But it needs a little tweaking yet.”

I frowned, and though I turned away from the edge, I didn’t leave it.  Not yet.  He couldn’t be serious?  The look he gave me over the top of his glasses told otherwise.  Still, I resisted.

“Let me see it.”  I plopped my backside onto a rock and held out my hand.  The Sage obliged.

“Needs more tension,” he said.

“I’ll tell you what needs more tension,” I muttered under my breath.

“Would you rather I just give you a pat on the head and a hip check off the edge?” he asked.  “Watch you bounce off the rocks all the way down before you climb up and try it again and again?  With any luck at all, that hard head of yours will connect with a boulder and knock some sense into you.”

I waved a backhanded gesture at him as I perused my precious tome.  “Blah, blah, blah.”

I didn’t want to look.  I wanted to leap.  I had reached a point of contentment with my manuscript.  A sense of completion.  If I kept picking at it I’d never stop.  I’d become the brother of a friend.  He’s been a lifelong scholar of many different callings with never once graduating from any of them.

Unfortunately, the Sage has a nasty habit of being right.  This thoroughly irks me.  Even when I want to argue a point, I can’t.  (Although, I have been told by an attorney friend that I can, actually, argue anything, and should have pursued a career in law.)

My frown deepened.  Many colorful words filled my mind.  None of them all that polite so I won’t repeat them here.  Once again, I was forced to concede that the Sage had a valid point.  I gazed longingly over my shoulder at the precipice I had worked so hard to conquer.

“You’ll be back up here in no time,” he said, as he guided me to my feet, placed a hand between my shoulder blades and shoved me ahead of him.  “Now, get busy.”

 

(In all seriousness, I am very fortunate to have Josh Langston, the Sage of the South, in my corner, even though he shares quite a few traits with Sheldon Cooper.  He has pushed me to become a better writer — and to drink — but mostly to stop being lazy and write to the best of my abilities — and drink.)

Write on!

Review of Day of Demons

Anthologies are a bit like a smorgasbord.  Lots of yummy things to sample and you can keep going back for more, and if you don’t like something, there are other options.  The problem with both when they’re good, is that eventually you come to the end.  <sigh>

By the time I hit story number nine in Day of Demons I wasn’t ready to be done.  I wanted more.  Definitely not for the faint of heart, or late night reading when you already have an overactive imagination, if you like demons, you’ll thoroughly enjoy this anthology.

Nine different stories, by nine different authors, all with their own unique take on the human-demon relationship.  Like every smorgasbord, however, there are some stand-out favorites.

The Deal by Karen Davies, The Serpent’s Kiss by Krista Walsh, and A Mother’s Love by James M. Mazzaro, were definitely three of the best.  Apart from the demon theme, all three were well written, kept me engaged to the end, and added a nice little twist I hadn’t seen coming.  Let’s not forget the spine chills either.

If your tastes run to the dark side, go now and buy your copy of Day of Demons.  But if you decide to read it before bed, don’t say I didn’t warn you. . .

Write on!

Checking In

No, I haven’t fallen off the face of the planet.  Not entirely.  I headed out of town last Friday for three days of intense dog training (which you can read about Here if you’re interested – as soon as I get it posted later this week, that is).  No time for writing, reading, or ‘rithmetic.  Not that I would have been doing any cyphering, it just seemed to fit there.  Most of Monday was spent on the road, then unpacking, chores, catching up, and plopping my happily exhausted backside on the couch.  Then Tuesday, back to the daily bump and grind.  So I’m a bit beat and trying to regain my footing.

I have promised a review of Day of Demons, which I swear I’ll get to this week.  Updates on my BD&L journey.  And the latest happenings in anything else I’m forgetting.

It’s amazing how quickly one can fall out of the regular routine, and how hard it is to get back into the swing of things again.  Okay, just a few more days and I should have it . . . until the weekend of the 18th when it’s four days of training again, then a show the following weekend.  Um. . . May might just be a bit crowded.

Write on! 

On the Edge

That’s me, standing there on the edge.  I’m not alone.  There are others, standing on this same precipice, staring down into the abyss, and trying to screw up the balls to jump.

Jumping isn’t the only way down.  We can go back the way we came, and try again some other day.  But we’ve made it this far, so there’s no going back.  Not for us.  It means too much.

We can take the stairs.  They’re relatively new, but by no means easier.  They offer us more control, but ask more of us.  There aren’t a lot of sign posts, and sometimes we’re forced to find our own way.

No.  We’re going to jump.  It’s a long way down, and gravity here doesn’t work the same.  The stairs would be quicker in this case.  Here the jump is an act of blind faith — or stupidity.  Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference.  We jump, and then we float, waiting, hoping someone will catch us, and ease us to the ground.  At some point, if no one does, we’ll find ourselves back up on that precipice faced with the decision all over again.

Some of us will give up and go back.  Maybe we’ll never try again, and only gaze longingly at the precipice, knowing it beat us, wishing we had the nerve to try again.  Or content knowing that at least we tried.

Some of us will take the stairs the next time, even though there’s no guarantee they’ll take us where we really want to go.  We’re strong enough to handle the twists and turns, and the work of making our own path.

Some of us will take another look, reassess, and leap again.  Because we’re stubborn.  Because we believe.  Because if somebody decides to catch us, we’ll have proved (if only to ourselves) that we’re worthy of being caught.

*Deep breath*  Look out below!!!

Write on!

Stick A Fork In It

It’s done!

Yes, Between Darkness and Light:  First of Her Kind is complete.  Oh, sure, I could continue to pick at it like the remains of a roasted chicken, but at some point I just need to proclaim it ready to go, and send it on its merry way.

Merry, and scary, all in the same breath.

This is the moment I’ve been working for.  Slaving over draft after draft, taking things from okay to (hopefully) awesome.  Time to tweak the query letter, and start working down that list of agents I’ve formulated.  Time to find BD&L a home.

Eek!

And I’m eeking not only because it’s rather scary to send my baby off into the big wide world, but because I won’t have it to work on any more.  It won’t consume my free hours and my writing time.  I’ll get to work on other projects.  Like a non-fiction project just in the early stages, and BD&L Book 2, and let’s not forget the much neglected and unnamed urban fantasy.

It’s downright weird.

I’m feeling. . . relieved?  Lost?  Sort of vague?  <sigh>

Huh.

Write on!

Review of Captives

Okay, okay!  Settle down everyone.  <pounds hand on podium, and peers at the assembled . . . chairs>  Hmm.  Look, I know you’ve all been patiently waiting for me to finish reading Captives, and I know it took a while, a really long while.  Which is absolutely no reflection on the book!  I’ve been busy.  But I’m finally done.  <the sound of crickets reach her ears>

<clears throat>  I said, I’M FINALLY DONE!

<momentary pause, the doors burst open and the unruly crowd crashes through, all fighting for the front row seats>

That’s better.  Now that I have your attention, I can do a proper review.  As soon as you — <points at man in cape> — get off that woman’s lap.  And go talk to someone about your wardrobe.  A cape is only cool if you’re a super hero, or a super villain, and plaid is not an appropriate choice.

Yes, if you’re wondering, I wrote this early in the a.m. when I hadn’t had nearly enough coffee to really get the grey matter less grey.

So, seriously now.  Review time.

 One reason I steer clear of historically based fiction, is the tendency of some authors to get far too hung up on the history part of it.  Hey, if I wanted that much of a lesson, I’d take a class.  Ultimately, I’m reading for the story and the characters.  The Druids Saga delivers marvelously on all scores.  The authors (Barbara Galler-Smith and Josh Langston) have masterfully intertwined history with story telling.  They give us just enough of a taste of the culture, and the people who lived in this ancient time, to put us firmly in there.  I’m still amazed at the depth of research that must have gone into these books.  It comes out in the subtle details, and the nuances of the character’s day to day lives, in a way that easily sucks the reader in.

In Druids the authors set the stage, moved all the players into their places, and left us craving the answers.  In Captives we get some of those answers, not all of which you’re going to like.  Tension builds on every page.  No one is safe.  It’s the reality of life — and the harsh realism brought to the story by the authors.  A happy ending with sunshine and butterflies is not a guarantee, but a hope, because we’ve come to know and care about the main players in the tale.  There are surprises — some good, some bad — and twists that make you cringe, and almost dread turning the page.  But you have to, because you need to know.  Does Mallec finally find Rhonwhen?  What becomes of Orlan?  Will Deirdre’s scheming bring her the results she desires?

Heck if I’m going to spoil it by telling you!  Get your own copy of Captives and find out for yourselves.   The only dull spot is having to wait for Warriors to come out.  <cue Jeopardy music>

Write on!

Writing From the Subconscious

Sometimes things have to dwell.  In cooking you do this so flavors blend together.  In my day job we do this with certain products so they can cure up properly and don’t cause problems down the road.  In the creative world, I let things sit when I’m having a problem I can’t define, or just need a break.  I let my subconscious work on the issues while I focus on other things, and then I go back to them with a new perspective and a fresh set of eyes.

On my WIP page is listed a sorely neglected, untitled, urban fantasy.  I love it and the characters, but I’d gotten about 8 or 9 chapters into it before I realized something wasn’t working.  I didn’t have a clear idea where it was headed, and I’d divulged too much, too soon.  That put one of the MC’s in a situation he had no way out of.  Which would mean The End — both his, and the book’s.  So I let it sit in favor of BD&L.

Now, if you’re a regular reader, you know BD&L has been all-consuming.  I’m doing the final transcription, which seems to be slower going than writing, editing, re-writing, editing again, again, and again.  Over the past week, however, my subconscious has been sending me disjointed scenes from the urban fantasy, and demanding I write them down.  I seem to have worked out some issues, fixed some plot holes, created others, and made some progress.  All without realizing I was even working on it.  Cool.  The subconscious is a wonderful thing, isn’t it?

However, it seems while my back was turned my story became decidedly darker and more intense.  I’m pretty much going to have to trash all but the first two chapters of what I currently have written.  My male lead is in for a much tougher time.  He’s going to wish I’d stuck with the first plot and just killed him off after eight chapters.  The female lead doesn’t get off any easier.  They’re both going to hate me before all is said and done, and it seems another key player isn’t going to be around for book 2.  Good thing I’m not an ol’ softy.  Though I have to say, if a character has any redeemable qualities whatsoever, I find it very difficult to kill them off.  Bad guys need love, too!

But what’s a story without tension?  Without the possibility of losing everything?  It’s not all sunshine and butterflies, people!

I was reminded of that as I read Captives.  Which I’ve finally finished and will be reviewing this week.  I hated the authors for some of the things they did to some of my favorite characters — and absolutely loved them for others!  Knowing no one was safe, that anyone could become a target, kept me turning the pages in anticipation — or dread.

But more of that in my review.  For now, as always . . .

Write on!

Playing in Someone Else’s Yard

It’s always fun to get out and explore new territory, and get a change of scenery.  As a writer, that’s what Greylands is.  The brain child of Krista Walsh at The Raven’s Quill, Greylands is a playground for writers.  Krista explains it as:

. . . a project that came to me in an attempt to make my blog a little more interactive. I’m surrounded by so many talented writers and I wanted to work with them to create something unique. If that was the goal, the project has already succeeded. The quality submissions I’ve received so far, the interest it’s generated – I’m blown away.

Krista has created the world, and the main characters and has invited writers to — well, come play.  I urge you, writer or reader, or both, to go check it out as it continues to grow.  And if you’re so inclined, pick up a pen and add to it.  You’ll find all the pertinent info at the link above.

I look at Greylands as a way to keep writing between projects.  Eyeballs deep in BD&L, my brain couldn’t take launching into something that demanded a lot so it’s a way to exercise my writing muscles.  I was originally going to grab one of the minor characters Krista had introduced.  Instead, a character named Fletch demanded I carry his part of the tale.  I never know where he’s going to lead me, but I definitely think he’s up to no good.

So, because I’ve been promising some new sniglet or writing sample for a while now, here is my first addition toGreylands. I encourage you to go read the rest.

**Please note: some strong language.**

Fletch stood with one shoulder against the wall, and his arms folded across his chest as he watched Mosh escort his latest stray across the camp. The boy had a thing for waifs. This one looked to be in her late teens, slight, blond, and with that guarded, dirt-smeared look on her face so common on the streets. Desperation mingled with determination. Still, she seemed . . . different some how. Fletch couldn’t put his finger on it, but she set his nerves tingling.

“Watcha doin’?”

Fletch slid a narrowed glare at Pipsqueak as the boy sidled up beside him. “Baking a fucking cake, Squeak.  You?”

“You’re spying on Mosh.”

“And if I am it’d be your business — why?”

Pipsqueak shrugged and Fletch turned his attention back to the little parade on its way to Jack’s quarters. Maverick had his tour guide hat on, playing it to the hilt, and no doubt scaring the crap out of the girl in the process.

“What do you know about her?” he asked, jutting his chin in the trio’s direction.

Pipsqueak sat on an upended crate, his feet dangling above the ground. “Her brother got his brains splattered by the coppers trying to lift some groceries.”

“And you guys rescued her?”

Pipsqueak grinned. “It’s what we do.”

Fletch snorted. “What you do is bring us closer to getting found.”

“Jack doesn’t mind. Why should you?”

“Jack’s an idiot.”

Pipsqueak’s eyes rounded in shock, and he launched off the crate. “You’ll be in for it when I tell Maverick what you said!”

Fletch grabbed him by the shoulder before he could get away. Pipsqueak yelped as Fletch yanked him back and, lifting him off the ground by both shoulders, slammed him against the wall. He resisted the temptation to hold the boy there by his throat.

“You’re not going to cause me any trouble, Squeak,” he said, his voice deadly soft. “Because if you do, the rats will be picking their teeth with your bones. You understanding me?”

Pipsqueak’s eyes, tears brimming at their edges, took on a whole different kind of round. His chin began to quiver.

“Lose your voice, kid?”

Pipsqueak shook his head. “No,” his voice hit the notes of his namesake.

Fletch cocked his head. “Well?”

“I got ya,” he said. “Loud and clear.”

“Your two pals even look crossways at me, I’ll think you told them something. You understand that?”

“Crap, Fletch!” The boy squirmed in his grip. “Won’t say nuthin’ to nobody. I swear it.”

Fletch held him a moment longer, then nodded. “Good boy,” he said. He lowered Pipsqueak to the ground. “Now make yourself invisible.”

Fletch waited until Pipsqueak angled toward a group of kids before he turned and left his vantage point. There were quicker ways to Jack’s private quarters than through the shock zone Maverick had taken, and Fletch knew them all.

He didn’t knock when he reached the door, and Jack didn’t turn when he entered the room. Their fearless leader stood in front of a large fireplace, hands clasped loosely behind his back. Not for the first time Fletch considered the chances of success in a quick knife throw.

“Careful, Fletch,” Jack said, and his low voice slithered across Fletch’s nerves like an icy-hot finger. “Thoughts like that can get a man strung up and left for the rats. I hear it’s an unpleasant way to die.”

“I’m sure there’s worse.”

Jack turned and the smile on his narrow, clean-shaven face held not a bit of warmth. “I know there are,” he said. “I invented them.”

He walked to an antique sideboard and poured himself a drink, then took a seat in the only leather upholstered chair in the room. Fletch remained standing, his arms folded across his chest. Compared to what existed beyond his door, Jack’s quarters were downright opulent. Unlike Jack, they actually gave the impression of warmth and sincerity.

Jack crossed his legs and took a swallow of the blood red liquid in his glass. He surveyed Fletch with eyes so dark they appeared black. “What are you after, Fletch?”

“Mosh’s latest stray,” Fletch said, without a moment’s hesitation.

“Since when are you interested in training?” The dark gaze narrowed. “You’re not thinking of building your own little army and taking me down, are you, Fletch?”

“We both know an army wouldn’t work on you, Jack. I believe holy water and a sacred ritual are more in order.”

Jack laughed. “Your sense of humor is what keeps you alive. There are only two reasons a street rat would pique your interest. You’re either horny, or up to something.” He took another drink, savoring the liquor. “Since I’m well aware you take care of your carnal needs above ground, I’m betting on the second reason.”

Fletch shrugged. “So long as she gets trained and doesn’t bring the roof down on your head, I figured you wouldn’t give a crap.”

“I don’t trust you,” Jack said. “There’s no disputing your skills, but your motives are always a bit foggy.”

“No more foggy than yours.”

Jack tipped his chin up and Fletch fought to keep the flinch from being obvious. Jack didn’t scare him, like he did the rest of his fawning subjects, but Fletch had a healthy dose of respect for what the man could do to him. He forced his breathing steady, kept his stance neutral, and his hand well away from the small of his back where one of his five knives was sheathed.

Jack placed his glass on the table beside the chair and stood. He crossed the five feet between them with measured steps, and stopped well within Fletch’s personal space, but Fletch kept still. They were the same height, nearly the same build, though Fletch probably had a little more by way of lean muscle. In a fair fight he could’ve taken Jack.

In Jack’s world the term ‘fair fight’ didn’t exist.

“One of these days,” Jack said, “I’m going to take you apart and see what kind of snake you are. Then I’m going to kill you.”

“No doubt you’ll try.” How Fletch managed to keep his voice level, he couldn’t say. It took every ounce of self control just to stop his fight response from kicking in full gear.

Jack’s thin lips pulled up at the corners. “I’ll do more than try.”

A knock on the door broke the tension, and Jack turned back to his chair, flicking a gesture that swung the double doors inward. Fletch let out the breath he’d been holding as Maverick led Mosh and the girl into the room.

“What’re you doing here?” Maverick grumbled.

Fletch looked sidelong at him. “Stand down, Scotty,” he replied. “I don’t want your job.”

“Like you could ever have it.” Maverick stepped in front of him and tipped his head to Jack. “Mosh has a new one for you.”

Fletch moved behind Maverick’s bulk to get a better view of the girl. She had to be about seventeen, he guessed, only slightly older than the over-sized sweatshirt that disguised her figure. Both looked to be covered with an annoying amount of grime.

She turned to look at him. The depth of her blue eyes pulled him in, past the guarded street look and the fear and uncertainty, to that little spark he had felt all the way across the camp.

If Jack didn’t give her to him, Fletch would take her. Either way, the treasure would be his.