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Friday, February 14, 2014

JC Adrijeski is the Author of one of my favorite Fantasy Novel series. Her words are addictive. Check her and her books out today!

JC Andrijeski's Fantasy Series Allie's War is one I've read and found fascinating.  I highly
recommend this series to fantasy readers.  Her great books are very action packed. 

JC Andrijeski has published novels, novellas, serials, graphic novels and short stories, including new adult fantasy series, Allie’s War, the new adult science fiction series, The Slave Girl Chronicles, and the Gateshifter series, about a shape-shifting alien and a tough-girl PI from Seattle. She also writes nonfiction essays and articles, as well as some erotica. Her short works have been featured in anthologies, online literary, art and fiction magazines as well as print venues such as NY Press newspaper and holistic health magazines. JC travels extensively and has lived abroad in Europe, Australia and Asia, but 
 currently lives and works full time as a writer in Portland, OR.

To learn more about JC and her writing, please visit

If you want to get an automatic email when JC’s next book is released, sign up for her email newsletter at Your email will be kept private, never sold and you can unsubscribe at any time. Word of mouth is essential for any author to succeed.

Featured Book-

JC Andrijeski excerpt of Rook-

Excerpt 1-
“Put it down!” A voice yelled. “On the ground! Right now!”
I blinked in confusion, staring at the bottle in my hand. The jagged end of broken glass looked like something out of a cartoon, or an old gangster movie.
Blood ran down the inside of my arm, not all of it mine. My muscles locked, bunched up with adrenaline.
Someone must have called the police. The young guy in front of me didn’t have his gun out, but his hand held the holster menacingly, and his uniform brought a flush of panic, starting somewhere in my lower belly.
The other fire that had burned there—irrationally bright only seconds before—abruptly sobered. Without taking so much as a breath, I dropped the broken bottle, holding up my hands in a gesture of surrender.
I’ve never been a tough chick. I’d never done anything remotely like this before...but I knew enough to know that my arms covered in tattoos and my punky, bleached-calico hair weren’t winning me any points with the men in blue. I looked around at the swath of cleared space around the bar.
“Hands up!” the cop yelled.
“They’re up!” I said.
He walked up, grabbing one of my wrists. He spun me around so I faced the bar. I felt cool metal hit my wrist as my chest thudded into the lacquered wood.
“You have any weapons?” the young policeman asked. He cuffed me, then patted me down. “Don’t fucking move!” he yelled, when I turned to look at him.
“No weapons!” I was shouting I realized, scared out of my wits.
All the while, my mind churned useless facts. People got shot doing stupid shit like this. More cops got shot in domestic disputes than during any other kind of call, which likely explained why the young cop’s hands shook as he cuffed me.
My eyes swept the oddly bright space until they lit on the person who had inspired all this drama, and that flame of irrational feeling ripped once more through my chest cavity, making it difficult to breathe, to think straight.
Jaden, my now ex-boyfriend, stood like a store mannequin, his eyes as wide as saucers in a pale face. He gripped the upper arm of his date, a voluptuous girl in a red vinyl dress, as if to steady himself. I looked at her, and the rage came back, intense enough to scare me. Breathing harder, I leaned against the wood, closing my eyes, trying to crush my own chest.
Feeling ripped through my center, animal-like—almost painful.
In my defense, I’d only heard about them that night, and the fact that their affair started three months earlier, while I’d been blissfully happy, thinking Jaden and I were mutually in love. According to his bass player, she’d started hanging out with them after shows, eventually winning him over with flattery, pouty lips and enormous tits.
She was babbling something to him and her friends now, half-hysterical, her arm bleeding profusely from where I’d slashed at her with the bottle, her red-painted lips another dark wound on her face.
I stared at them both, thinking, this can’t be real. It can’t be. This isn’t me.
But it was.

Excerpt 2
I stared out the dirty window of the bottle-green Plymouth, watching trees and coast slide by. We were still on Highway 1, nearing where it merged with 101, not far from the Oregon border.
I hadn’t been on that stretch of road since I was a kid. What took minutes on Highway 5, or even 101 from San Francisco to Eureka, took hours along Highway 1, making the twisting two-lane road hugging the rocky coastline feel endless. But Revik wanted us off the main highway, at least until we crossed state lines. Even within seaside towns, he took side streets, avoiding the main “strips,” if they could be called that in towns that maybe had four bars, a salt-eaten motel, a greasy spoon, a church, a head shop and one drive-through coffee stand.
Somewhere near Fort Bragg, he uncuffed me from the door. I suppose I should’ve been grateful for that, but as my hands and ankles remained bound, my gratitude was limited. I watched the sun slink into the Pacific as pelicans skimmed by, beating long wingspans.
I felt him looking at me. When he didn’t stop after a few minutes, I exhaled sharply, facing him.
He turned the wheel of the Plymouth, sliding behind the main street of another seaside village whose name I didn’t know. We passed a few bars and an auto shop. His pale eyes shone in the neon signs.
“We are low on gas. Can I trust you?”
“Dehgo...whatever your name is...”
“Right. Are you going to tell me? What that guy meant about me ending the world?”
He exhaled. “Terian was trying to unbalance you. But it is true that they...” He amended, “...We believe you to be someone important.”
“Important how?”
“Allie, can I trust you, if I—”
“Revik, important how?”
Clicking to himself, he pulled into a nearby Arco station. Stopping in front of a pump, he turned off the ignition. When an attendant walked right up to the window, I realized with some surprise that we must be in Oregon. Revik rolled down the window, which stuck a few times. He gave me a last warning glance.
“Hey! Cool car, man! What can she do on the freeway...?”
The boy’s words trailed, just before his eyes filmed over.
Revik sat up to tug the clip from his back pocket, handing through a few bills of paper money. I noticed the attendant’s eyes didn’t look at me as he took the folded paper. They also didn’t glance at the rust-colored stains on Revik’s shirt, or the slash of the same on his pale neck.
Frowning, he glanced at me, then at the rearview mirror. I watched as he licked his fingers, rubbing at the dark stain on his neck. Then he leaned over my lap and pulled open the glove box. Taking out an oil rag, he poured some water in it from a plastic bottle and rubbed it over his neck, erasing the mark completely.
“Revik, I’m hungry. I’m thirsty, too.”
Instead of answering, he handed me the half-full bottle.
I tilted it over my mouth, drinking.
His tone remained neutral. “Like I told you...historical periods have beginnings, middles and ends,” he said. “At the end, the dominant species has an opportunity to several possible directions. We seers call these opportunities Displacements.” In the mirrors, he watched the boy hook the pump to the tank. His fingers gripped the wheel, green in the florescent light.
“…In some human mythology, this is called ‘Apocalypse.’ Do you know this word?”
I rolled my eyes. “Yeah. I might have heard it on one or two heavy metal albums.” I watched the blond kid in the dingy overalls enter the convenience store. He walked to one of the coolers in the back, pulled out a large bottle of water.
“...So you understand,” Revik said. “This will, of necessity, affect all of the species, not just humans. The elders have seen signs of the human displacement approaching. Some of these signs relate to developments in the natural world. Others have to do with—”
“Okay,” I said, still watching the boy. “...So you’re paranoid. What does any of that have to do with me?” I watched the blond kid pull two plastic-sealed sandwiches out of a cooler, two apples, a bag of chips...
“Burrito,” I blurted. “Get me a frozen burrito...he can throw it in the microwave, right?”
A hint of revulsion grew visible in the set of Revik’s mouth, but when I looked back at the store, the blond kid was stuffing a plastic-covered burrito into a industrial microwave and twisting the grease-covered dial. When I glanced over, Revik was watching me again, his eyes narrow.
He said, “The Bridge ushers in the Displacement. They are the catalyst. They are also what we call an intermediary of the first. Historically, they gather three friends—”
“Let me guess...the four of us, we all ride horses, right?” I propped my cuffed hands on the armrest. “I do read, you know.”
I leaned my head on the glass. Glancing in the side mirror, I winced. I looked like I’d escaped from a mental hospital, then got beaten up and thrown in a dumpster.
I saw him watching me, eyes narrow.
“Trust me to attract crazies even among the seers,” I said. “...Jon will love this.”
Revik rolled down his window, accepting the receipt from the blond in the dirty coveralls. The blue and white patch on his breast labeled him “Jerry.” Jerry handed a paper bag through the window that Revik placed on my lap, where its warmth soaked through my waitressing uniform skirt.
“The Bridge is the catalyst,” Revik repeated, like I hadn’t spoken. “They have their place, like any of the intermediary beings.” He turned the key, and the GTX’s engine rumbled to life. “You need to understand your importance. Not in terms of ego, but of role. It is a responsibility, Allie.”
I looked up from the bag. “So, just to be clear. You're saying I am going to end the least as we know it. And that this is a job that I should take seriously...and do really, really well.” I tilted my head at him. “Did I get that right?”
I watched him think. “Yes,” he said. “That is right. Simplistic, but ultimately correct.” Before I could speak, or even laugh, I saw his eyes click back into focus. “You will meet Vash. Then you will understand.”
“Did you just read my mind?” I said.
“Is that absolutely fucking necessary?” I said.
He thought about this also, glancing at me.
“Yes,” he said.
Excerpt 3
We approached Seattle. I glimpsed a skyline to my left, then flashes of buildings through a maze of overpasses dripping with dark green plants.
I recognized landmarks from being here with Jon, but couldn’t read signs with how fast we were going. I’d stopped looking at the speedometer. Revik was doing something in that other place, so I couldn’t use his grid thing. I felt a few people point as we passed, and other vehicles pulled over, moving out of the way of the line of cop cars screaming behind us.
I felt it when the third cop car ceased to be a pull toy between Revik and whoever else. I felt Revik lose and let go just before the cop accelerated, coming up on us blaring light and sound. I glanced over in time to see the dark-skinned cop smile at Revik, making an odd flowing up and down gesture with one hand that had the flavor of a taunt.
Then whatever held the cop’s body let go, leaving the cop sweaty-faced, determined, and completely focused on the two of us. From his eyes, he fully believed we’d killed his whole family with baseball bats then lit his house on fire.
Revik turned to me, his pale eyes hard.
“Stop the car,” he growled.
I thought I’d heard him wrong. “What?”
Behind him, I saw the Seattle cop raise a shotgun. Before I could react, Revik grabbed the wheel, jerking it sideways to slam into the cruiser. The cop dropped the shotgun.
“Revik, jesus! What are you—”
“Take that exit! Right now, Allie!”
He pointed and I veered, braking to slide across lanes.
I saw the truck driver, who was still, amazingly, behind us, begin the turn to follow, glimpsed faces as other, noninvolved drivers reacted, eyes widening in fear as they tried to get out of my way, instead coming even more dangerously close to hitting us. I slid behind the Washington cop, in front of a different trucker who honked madly.
Then we were past, wincing from the scrape of metal as the GTX grazed his grill.
Revik leaned out the window, firing at the Seattle cop from behind. He blew out a rear tire with the first shot, smashed the back window with his second. He chambered another round and aimed again, blocking my side view when he climbed up to sit on the passenger side window.
The Seattle cop cut across multiple lanes and again I felt the difference; it was no longer a human driving, but one of those things with lightning-fast reflexes and 360 degree vision. I was forced to brake, saw Revik clutch the window frame as he lost his balance. The Seattle cop swerved, just making it onto the exit off-ramp behind us. A sign flashed by.
I glimpsed white words spelling “Mercer Island.”
Revik slid back in through the window, landing on the seat. When I looked over, his shoulder was bleeding again, a dark spreading stain under his shirt.
“You are trained in basic firearms use?” he said.
“Right,” I said, loud over the wind and engine. “Dad taught me to shoot cans. I'm practically special forces.”
“Good.” He propped the gun up on the seat between us. “Use it if they get too close.” He added, “Or if I don’t come back.”
“What? Revik, that's not funny, I—”
His body slumped against the seat. I cursed, swerved into a guardrail, and the GTX threw up sparks. I gripped his arm in my stubby nails, hard enough to bruise his skin. I shook him, wondered if I should hit him, like he had me.
“Revik! You've got to be kidding me! REVIK!”
Something smashed into the back of the car.
I was merging into the main sprawl of traffic and the truck driver with the blue flannel shirt was in the next lane over. Pulling up alongside the GTX, he aimed the pump-action shotgun out his window. I hit the brakes and another cop car hit us from behind; it forced me along until I accelerated, and the guy was honking, waving at me to pull over.
A rush of panic made me wonder what would happen if I did. Even as I thought it, the first Seattle cop drew up next to me on my other side.
...and for an instant, I see him. A metal thread cage ensnares his light, and behind his eyes breathe the orbs of the Rook controlling him. They shine coal red, and he makes his thumb and index finger into the shape of a gun, pointing it at me as his lips stretch in a corpse’s smile.
Bang, bang, little girl.
I snapped out, still miraculously gripping the steering wheel...and feel them in me. They drag at me and I shriek, as if the sound of my own voice might keep my light in my body.
But I can feel myself separating out, losing control of my limbs.
Lowering my head, I bite down on my fingers. My teeth clamp on skin and bone and my light rushes in like a rubber band snapping back.
Pain came with the light. I un-clamped my jaw from the red crescent on my knuckles. Blood dripped over the steering wheel once I’d extracted my teeth.
Everything went dark.
We’d entered a tunnel. My foot mashed down on the accelerator.
Orange lights streaked by in irregular lines as cars cast shadows on tile walls. Surrender no longer felt like a good idea. The Seattle cop’s eyes flash red and I realize I am still inside, just enough that they are all around me...
I slam my head against the driver’s side window, hard enough to crack it, leaving an impact mark surrounded by spider web lines. I am losing it. I feel sick, my blood leaches out as they pull at me.
I keep my foot jammed on the accelerator as I lean over and snatch at Revik’s seat belt, miss, grab for it again, hooking it in my fingers. A car slams the GTX from behind, and I lose the silver buckle, curse.
The third time, I dragged the nylon belt over his body and hooked it into the clasp at his side. His skin glistened with sweat.
I hit him with my fist, hard in the side of the head, trying to wake him, and lost control of the car, slamming into the guardrail, leaving paint and metal as sparks flew before I got it off again.
Sunlight washed into my eyes, slanting through the windshield as we flew out of the second tunnel. Before me stretched a long bridge with water on either side. The ramp aimed straight for the lake’s surface where the bridge floated on top of the water.
I glanced at Revik.
“Mortal peril,” I muttered. “Mortal peril...”
I didn’t think...but I saw every flash of metal and sunlight as I swung the wheel. Veering behind a green Jetta, I made a straight line for the right guardrail, beyond which lay Lake Washington. A thick, protective rail stood between us and the water...
...but my mind seems to clasp it somehow, fold it, or maybe not my mind, but suddenly I can see through it...
...and we are through. Exhilaration lifts me as the car soared.
Then gravity clutched the GTX at the top of the arc. Its nose tipped.
As water rushed to meet us, I could only hold the steering wheel, flashing to being on a runaway horse as a kid, where I’d clutched a mare’s black mane, screaming in fear and hysterical laughter. If a thought formed in my mind just then, it may have been about death...the transitoriness of all things.
Instead, there was a long, slow silence as the water rushed to meet.

Where to find this Author-

Check out Best-Selling Author Carolyn Arnold's interview and find out more about this amazing author- she's in our event and has a new book release this week!

Author Carolyn Arnold
It's my pleasure to post friend and Author, Carolyn Arnold on our Events blog today.  I met Carolyn a few years ago and am very glad we've gotten to be friends.  I lover her writing and her novels are addictive.  I'm former Law Enforcement and she writes thriller, so I consider that a strong statement.  I hope you enjoy learning more about this outstanding author who is a featured author at our facebook Valentines Day Fantastical Reads Event.  Carolyn is also releasing a new book today, so check it out 
 (you can visit the Event at

Author Carolyn Arnold

Brief BIO:
Carolyn Arnold is the best-selling author of the Madison Knight series. Her writing has been compared to New York Times Bestsellers such as JD Robb, Mary Higgins Clark, Sue Grafton, Michael Connelly, Tess Gerritsen, and more.  She is a member of Crime Writers of Canada and lives with her husband, and two beagles in a city near Toronto.
So, Carolyn, what are your feelings regarding pets?  DO you have pets?  Have you had pets in the past?
I had goldfish when I was growing up. Their names were Oscar and Louise. As they passed away, they were replaced so there was at least an Oscar the Third. He was a black goldfish and Louise was gold.
Cats and I don't typically get along that well. When I was young, I picked up the neighbor's cat and it clawed my face. I remember Mom marching with me across the street to its owner to make sure its shots were up to date. My one sister also had a cat who reached out to claw my face, but thank goodness for my cabbage patch doll at the time. She took the brunt of it. I think it's just something to do with our eyes when they connect. Since then I have met 1 cat that I got along with—and that was only a month ago—but I think the cat was a dog in disguise. It was the only cat I've ever met who loves to cuddle.
I have never had a bird, but love to eat chicken.
Now, dogs, they are my favorite. Love them. All of them. All sizes and all breeds. I have two beagles currently, Max and Chelsea. They are just over four years old when I write this response, and are brother and sister. Before them, I had a beagle named Todd. We refer to him as Uncle Todd to the new guys. He passed away at 11 and will never be forgotten. They worm into your heart and really become another family member. Todd has a permanent spot in the Madison Knight series as Terry Grant's one beagle is named after him.
Of all your characters, who are you the most like? Who are you the least like?
I am the most like Madison because I am determined and speak my mind. There are also some differences. Madison is afraid of commitment, whereas I am happily married. She also has an addiction to chocolate I can't quite match.
I would say I'm the least like Tessa, the protagonist from Hart's Choice. She loves ballet and the fine arts, and while appreciation for such exists within me, it doesn't consume me as it does Tessa. For her, dance is her passion.
Where do you get your characters' names?
For the most part they come to me without much thought. Supporting characters, suspects, or one-off encounters sometimes send me to an online random name generator in search of a name, but my main characters always tell me who they are. I have even perused my social media feeds for names.
In Found Innocent, there is a motel clerk Madison Knight and her partner, Terry, question. During the working stages, I had him just marked as "*" in a few spots. I do this when I don't have a name, or need to ensure I get the right one in there, if I've mentioned it before. Anyway, I felt a strong need to put in the name Trevor. As I kept working through the scene, I came to realize that's what I had named him later on, in previous drafts. It just confirmed that was supposed to be his name.
I have even had characters correct me on their name. A funny thing happened with Eleven and what is now the first in the Brandon Fisher FBI series. When I was going through the outlining process for the book trailer, I had put in the name as Brandon Fisher. I didn't catch this oversight until the trailer was finished. See, I had written the manuscript with his last name as Harper. Ironically, however, when talking about him I would always refer to him as Fisher, even though that was originally the last name for his supervisor. Brandon was very hard-headed about his name and got the one the one that belonged to him after all.
What do you do when facing a plot block?
I let it sit and busy myself with other things, and it eventually it comes to me and resolves itself.
The first I experienced a solid block was in the brainstorming process for Assassination of a Dignitary. The problem was I told my character Raymond Hunter who he was--I wasn't listening to him. To fix this issue, I let my mind drift from the plot and the characters. When I let go of my premonitions about whom and what he was, he spoke to me, rather loudly I may add and told me, "I'm not a good guy." See, I had originally pegged him as an innocent. Turns out he was a former hitman for the mafia.
Do you hear voices?
Absolutely and I embrace them! LOL Well, I hear them in the sense of my writing, nothing beyond that. I think all writers need to hear voices to get their stories down.
How do you write? Do you plan it all out, or go with the flow? Do you handwrite it and then type it out, or head right for a computer?
I write like I'm watching a movie in my mind. I see the scene, I observe the interactions, and I record them. I prefer to write on a computer, my laptop or desktop, I'm not fussy. I have handwritten scenes when I don't have access to a computer, though.
I am what many term a "panster", meaning I write from the seat of my pants. I don't outline in the typical sense. I go with the flow, but make notes at the end of the manuscript with points, or scenes I want to pick up on next, or in the near future.
What is the best compliment you've received about your writing?
I have received high compliments with comparisons to some of the greats—JD Robb, Sue Grafton, and Tess Gerritsen to name a few. But when people tell me they can't put my book down, wow! I had a reader tell me they had to finish up my book and spent their Sunday doing so. That spoke specifically to me because Sundays are a day of family and relaxation. To know that people are relaxing with my books, that is special.
How much of your personal experience do you incorporate into your writing?
I would have to say a lot of it. I don't think this can be helped by any author. It's our observations of people, places, events, and interactions which are unique to us and get integrated into our writing.

-Hart's Choice-

Harts Choice Video Trailer

Carolyn Arnold
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Thursday, February 13, 2014

Today I am posting Calinda B and her wonderful Romance Novel 'The Beckoning of Beautiful Things' which is a Featured Novel in our Valentine's Day Fantastical Reads Event on facebook

Calinda B

(Calinda B writes Fantasy/Romance/Erotica)

About the Author

The Fun Part: Calinda B was told early on that she should be a writer. She heard frequent praise for her writing, as well as her sense of humor. Scoffing at such admonitions and praise, she went on to pursue her life of adventure, chock full of the things that make up a well-rounded adventurous life: music (yup, she was a singer in a rock and roll band), dance (even performed hip hop in Russia), rock climbing (ever hung from a rock wall a few stories up? Yikes!), fire walking (taught high-ranking Moscow fire officials how to walk the coals), kayaking, scuba diving (she's in love with sharks), travel, and falling in love again and again.

The Daily Grind: An award-winning web designer and certified SEO specialist, Calinda B has worked in the Internet industry as a web page designer/developer since the early 1990's. She has also taught web site design and computer graphics at community colleges in Northern California. In addition to writing, Calinda B creates fine art and music, and enjoys scuba diving, kayaking, and bike riding. Calinda B makes her home in the Pacific Northwest with the love of her life and her two cats. She is currently working on the fourth book in The Wicked Series, tentatively entitled A Wicked Ending, or the third book in The Beckoning Series or maybe those are done and she's working on.... She loves to write and does it daily.

- The Beckoning of Beautiful Things-

"An excellently plotted and written book that will blow your mind and warm your girly (and man) parts!" Anabella Johnson--Indie Book Reviewers

Excerpt 1
Her gaze tracked his hand as if he guided a puppet string attached to her eyes. Her back stiffened slightly as she secured her point of focus on the beckoning blue orbs. A single word lolled in her head, like a leaf on a lazy river. Want. The word balanced on her lips, drawing them apart as she regarded his eyes. “And what did you discover?”

Not taking his eyes away from hers, he answered. “Just now?”

“Yes,” she breathed.

“I think I discovered something rare.”

“What do you think it is?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” he answered. “But I sure want to find out.”

Excerpt 2 
As if in response, he leaned toward her, and covered her lips with his succulent mouth. His tongue delved inside her mouth, teasing hers open, inviting her tongue to tangle with his. His wet lips trailed along her jaw to her neck, nibbling and sucking her flesh. A million birds’ wings fluttered insistently along her slick core, seeking release.

He sought her eyes and said, “I can’t wait. I just can’t wait any longer. I’m going to claim you, now, mi coraz√≥n.”

A tiny voice in her head protested. Claim me? Honestly? The rest of her wasn’t listening, not one little bit.

Excerpt 3

“Did you find one?” Tom’s voice called through the air.
“Is that a yes or a no, Ms. Marissa? Make up your mind.”
“It’s a yes, but it’s my head. So not suitable.”
“Bring it.”
“No,” she wailed.
“Bring the damn head,” Tom commanded with the same force as before.
Marissa ground her teeth together, scrunched up her face, and let out a loud exclamation, spraying spit from her mouth as she did this. She clenched and unclenched her hands over and over and over.
“Get over here!” Tom yelled. “Chiara’s going to sail away and that is not going to make me very happy. I’ve been trying to claim her for years.”
“Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God,” Marissa cried. “Okay…picking up the head…picking up my head…picking up a head that looks like mine.”

Can you please share with us a little about yourself?
I’m super smart, curious, introspective. I love to laugh and find humor in the world around me. I love the natural world. I’m a risk taker. I’ve taught fire-walking, dance, aerobics. I’ve rock climbed. I’m a kayaker and a scuba diver. I’m passionate about life and love. I’m in an awesome committed relationship, have two towering grown kids, two cats and constantly strive to grow inside. I’ve endured a fair bit of trauma in life but always strive to heal and not let it define me - it may have shaped me but it’s not who I am.

Have you always wanted to be an author?
No. My high school advanced placement English teacher told me I would be a writer. I thought that was a stupid idea. I wanted to explore, grow, heal, change, move. I wanted to love a lot. I wanted to do everything a little different from the norm. I wanted to act out and make some really dumb mistakes, as well as a few brilliant moves. In the end, though, my teacher was apparently right - all that exploration gave me something to write about!

Can you share with us your typical writing day.  Is there anything you have to have while writing?
I get up early, when the house is quiet (all save the cats who want to be fed. They’ve been on purr patrol on the bed, watching me to see if I’ve awakened.) Cats fed. Check. Jasmine green tea by my side. Check. Shades open to reveal the beautiful world outside. Check. I’ll write for a few hours until I have to work at my day job which just so happens to be in the same room (we own our own business). And then, at days end, I’ll write some more.

What would you say is the most challenging or rewarding part of writing?
The process of crafting a story is truly rewarding. I love shaping the characters, fleshing out the worlds they live in and the circumstances they encounter. When I’m really immersed in a story, I think about the characters all day long. If I get stuck, I stop writing but the process continues. I’ll muse about the stuck part. Shove it out of my head. Let it bubble back into me. And then - voila! Insight occurs and I’m back on the trail. There’s something extremely delicious about the whole process. Very fulfilling.

Who are some of your favorite authors?
Books by JR Ward, Karen Marie Moning, and Tahereh Mafi come to mind. I am completely captivated with a new author - Damon Suede. And I enjoy Sasha Campbell’s writing. Those are just a few off the top of my head.

How do you prefer (and why) your female characters to be: damsel in distress or badass chick? Can they be both?

Women are amazing characters. We are complex. As some joke, we have lots of “dials and buttons and knobs” whereas men only have an “on/off” switch. We are mysterious. We are capable of amazing strength. Amazing acts of kindness and love. Incredible accomplishment. But we generally don’t start out that way. I know I sure didn’t. Like many, I’ve had more than my fair share of curve balls pitched my way.

Keeping this in mind, I generally start out a series writing the female lead from the POV of her flaws. Her life has shaped her in some sad or disturbing ways. You might be uncomfortable when you read about her. You might say, “Snap out of it, girl!” Or you might cheer her on, certain that she can overcome the odds. Is she a damsel in distress, needing rescuing? Hell, no. She’s only not found her way yet. That’s where the fun begins. That’s where the possibilities start rolling in my head. How will she get from broken to restored, whole and alive? How will this woman become her badass self?
In The Beckoning of Beautiful Things, the first in the Beckoning series, we find Marissa Engles immersed in her art, yearning for a more fulfilling life. Boy, does she get that! She’s got a complete jackass of a boyfriend, a surfer dude named Jason. She meets Daniel Navid, sparks fly (literally!) and through learning that she’s not really who she thought she was, she’s transformed beyond her wildest dreams.

In The Beckoning of Broken Things, Marissa starts out smack dab in a mental hospital. She’s pissed. She doesn’t know how she got there, why she got there, who put her there. She’s told she’s delusional because she “thinks” she can stream electricity through her veins and shape the world around her, using her artistic skills. She’s put on a drug cocktail of Haloperidol, a drug commonly given to schizophrenics, and Carbamazepine to stabilize her mood. Carbamazepine is typically given to manic-depressives. This forced drug induction makes her even angrier. She’s had things done to her against her will; things done to her without her consent. She’s pissed. She wonders if she’s broken.

She wonders how she will ever get out of the situation she’s in.

She’s got a few resources at her disposal. One is her loyal, loving Doberman Pinscher, Sober Dober, with his new, sparkly wings. The other is her determination and her will to find solutions. Her unique abilities certainly play a part. Her sexual potency factors into her transformation as well. I find that sex and sexual energy can be one of the most transformative energies on the planet. It can burn like a blaze taking everything with it like a volcano. It can simmer and shape change in positive ways. All of my characters, no matter what shape they start out in, find their way out through sexual attraction, through owning their sexual power, and through their potent alliances with their partners of choice.

Where to find this Author-


Twitter: @calindab1


Wednesday, February 12, 2014

Check out Award Winning Author Sandy Wolters and her book 'Soul Mates'

 About Sandy Wolters 
 in her own words

I’ve been an avid reader for years. To my husband’s dismay, I have bookshelves full of books, rooms full of books, boxes full of books. My cars have books in them. I just can’t seem to get rid of them after I read them. You just never know when you will want to read it again, right? When my husband bought me a Kindle, it cut down on our need for storage, but it opened me up to books that I might never have experienced otherwise.

The biggest transition in my relationship with books occurred, however, when I, much to my surprise, became an author. I had started having dreams about people I didn’t know. I started looking forward to my dreams every night. Then I realized that I was daydreaming about these people as well. I'd just be sitting there, and these people and their antics would pop into my mind. Finally, I gave in and began writing their story down, something I had never dreamed of doing.

After I wrote my first book Maggie Mae, I had do idea what to do with it. After trying the traditional route for a little while, my husband pushed me in the direction of ebooks, and I’ve never looked back.

My books invariably feature strong women. My husband, Michael, and I have raised two strong daughters, Pilar and Shandelle, and they inspire the characters in my stories. As a matter of fact, Pilar was the main character in my book A Brother’s Love, and Shandelle is the main character in my new release Soul Mates. Justice for Emily was the most difficult book I’ve written, and that was because Emily was the victim of a sadistic, cruel, and abusive husband, who just happened to be the Chief of Police. One of my readers described this books as a “good mystery laced with sex, violence, ghosts and spirits.” The only thing her summary left out was the strength of the two women in this story: Emily and Rachael.

I’ve had fun with all the books I’ve written. I think the fact that I insert real events into my books, things that have actually happened in my family’s lives, is like having a private joke. Knowing that Michael Rogers in Maggie Mae is based on my husband tickles my fancy. I am a very lucky woman!

Although I write romance novels, they always contain a paranormal twist. My latest, Soul Mates, has the added element of time travel accomplished through the magical arts. I imagine my future writings will always contain romance with strong women and men of character, influenced by events that reach beyond what we consider normal, and perhaps seasoned with a little touch of whimsy.

- Soul Mates-
(Steamy Time Travel Romance)

Soul Mates Excerpt -
Chapter One

Ireland 1303

Watching the preparations for the upcoming festivities at the castle unfold in front of her, the young girl closed her eyes and breathed deeply to take in the smells of the assorted meats as they roasted on the communal spit. Her mouth was watering from the savory scents.

Today was indeed a special day. It was not only her birthday, but also a day of festival where all the people belonging to the Clan O’Brien converged on the castle dressed in their finest clothes, partook in games, listened to bards, danced, and indulged in succulent meats and spirits. Today was the first day of February, traditionally the first day of spring in Ireland and the day for honoring St. Brigid of Kildare. Long tables and benches had been set out in the courtyard for all the clansmen and visitors to partake in the celebration.

Maybe, just maybe, if she were lucky, she would get a glimpse of the chief's son, Donovan. She smiled to herself, not understanding the feelings her six-year-old heart felt when her gaze fell on the beautiful Donovan with his dark hair and intense, ten-year-old boyish good looks.

She held the wild rose she had picked on her walk to the castle close to her heart. She didn't know why, but she believed this rose was significant somehow. Her mother had always taught her to listen to her inner feelings so Shannon clung to the rose, knowing it would be of great import today.

As she weaved her way through the people, her spirits soared. Everyone was smiling, laughing, friendly. Moving closer to the inner circle of the courtyard, she noticed many unfamiliar faces among the men. While not unusual at festival time, her curiosity was aroused. As she moved even closer, a cold chill ran down her spine. Questions filled her mind as she became aware that these men displayed none of the lightheartedness of the others—in fact, just the opposite.

Her hand unwittingly flew to the amulet hanging around her neck in a leather pouch to feel its warmth and security. Who are these men? Why do they all look so unapproachable, so angry? Her feeling of unease was so intense that she wanted to run from the celebration and sound a warning of danger. Every instinct within her was forewarning Shannon about the pure evil of which these men were capable.

With such strong feelings of distress running through her body, she didn't realize that she was slowly backing away from where the men had gathered in a single area of the courtyard. As she put distance between herself and these strangers, the tension in her body eased. Though her senses were relaxing, she still clutched her amulet. Turning, she saw a stranger dressed as the frightening men were dressed; yet, there was something different about this man. He was not angry like the others. She felt no evil cascading off of him as she had with the others.

This man was sad, the feeling so strong within him that the air around him seemed to shimmer with it. She stood there, unable to move, watching as people, walking by this man, unconsciously gave him a wide berth. Although the people seemed oblivious to the shimmering aura around him, it was evident they must have felt it for they walked around this force field of sorrow as if to avoid being trapped in it.

Aengus Doyle, heir to the Clan Doyle, sat and stared into his cup of ale. He was burdened by the  viciousness that always overtook him when he sought revenge against those who had murdered the people of his father’s clan—murdered for a few meaningless trinkets and even less livestock. With each day that passed, he knew he was becoming more and more like his bloodthirsty father, who ruled with an iron fist and a heart of stone. He could not help but wonder what had happened to that young lad who had loved life and dreamed of leading his father’s people with a generous, kind heart, rather than with one as black as his had become. Torturing those thieves had excited him as he discovered new ways to inflict pain upon them. It was as if his father had stepped inside him, possessing his body like the devil himself. Now it sickened him to the core.

Lost in thought and blocking all the sounds of celebration from himself, he felt a slight shift in the air pressure around him. A tiny voice made its way through the psychological walls he had set up around himself.

"Excuse me, sir."

He ignored the sweet voice as he forcibly kept his attention on his feelings of disgust about the atrocities he had inflicted on other human beings. He hoped this exercise and his remorse would keep these dark, powerful emotions chained within himself, never to appear to him again. If he could keep them there, perhaps he had a chance to go on with his life.

"Excuse me, sir," the voice repeated.

Without looking up, Aengus snarled, "Go away! I do not desire to have a conversation."

The next moment, a beautiful rose moved into his field of vision. Something in his gut clenched. He looked up to see a little girl dressed in a well-worn smock, holding the rose out to him. His body relaxed as he looked at this beautiful child in front of him. She had golden hair that shimmered in the sun, light-colored freckles dotted her nose, and a beautiful smile crossed her lovely, bow-shaped mouth. Looking into her large, stunning eyes, he forgot to breathe. Her eyes were such a dark blue, they reminded him of priceless gems he had once been shown by his father in his clan's coffers. Her soul shone brightly through these eyes of sparkling sapphire, and he knew he would never forget them. He felt this child looking into his soul and experienced peace for the first time since his journey had begun.

"I picked this rose for you, sir, on my way to the castle." She brandished the wild rose, and her smile grew even larger.

Aengus lifted his hand and gently took the rose from the child. As he did this, she climbed into his lap and put her tiny hand on his face to help steal the sadness from him.

"My name is Shannon. Today is not a good day to feel so sad. Today is a happy day. It is festival and my sixth birthday. No one should feel the pain you do today."

The emotion this child was evoking in him stunned Aengus. At her touch, tension that had ensconced itself in his body flowed out of him. He felt warmth and love emanating from this small angel, undoubtedly sent to him from heaven above. No more words were spoken. Shannon simply looked into his eyes and smiled. Time stood still. He knew this tiny girl was somehow giving him strength, healing his soul. He didn't understand it, but he wouldn't refuse the gift she was passing to him.

Proudly, she told him, "My mother says I have a gift. She says that I'm going to be a very important person when I grow up. I'm going to change the way people think and how they treat others." Her hand moved from his face to clutch her amulet. "You are in danger. I can feel it. You're afraid of losing yourself to the dark side of your ancestry."

She paused as she took the pouch off of her body and held it out to him. "This is my talisman. It's very powerful." She reached for his hand and placed it over the amulet in her own. "Do you feel it? Do you feel the power of it?"

His breath caught in his throat. He could feel the power, power such as that contained in the strong storms at sea. He felt the power surge through his body as if he had been hit by lightening.

"Do you feel it?"

He couldn't speak. All he could do was acknowledge her with a nod.

"The amulet keeps me safe. My mother said to never take it off, but I believe your soul is in grave danger, and you need it more than I."

Aengus stared at her, unwilling to let go of the emotions this child aroused in him. She was offering something so personal, so powerful, to a complete stranger who she felt needed help.

Afraid of his voice cracking, he spoke very softly. "Thank you, little one, but I cannot accept such a gift as this. I have nothing of value to give in return."

Shannon smiled. "The evil from your soul is gift enough. You, too, are destined to change the people around you. You need this to stay safe so you can continue on the path you were meant to be on."

She put the pouch around his neck and pressed it against his heart. His body shook with emotions he had not felt in years. He felt as though he now had the strength to beat the devil himself. He didn't know how or why, but he knew her words were true. He would change the lives of the people in his clan for the better when he became chieftain of the Clan Doyle.

She gently slid off his lap and gave him one last, delightful smile. Without her sitting on his lap, the sharp pain of abandonment, complete isolation, washed over him again.

"I must leave now to go home and help mother bring our food to the festival." Conspiratorially, she cupped her hands to her mouth as if relaying a big secret. "I'm going to walk home through the trees." She giggled. "My mother says not to walk there because there are goblins and fairies that will carry me off, but I've never seen one."

Immediately alert, he leaned forward and reached for her hands. "Let me take you home. It's the least I can do for you."

Cocking her head, she said. "I love to walk, and I don't live far. You stay and enjoy the festival. I'm glad you feel better. The sadness has stopped shimmering in the air around you."

He didn't want to let her go. He pleaded, "Please, do as your mother asks. Take the road. It's much safer than the trees." He paused, thinking of the ambush he and his men had accomplished just hours ago in trees like these. "There are bigger and much uglier things than fairies or goblins that can hide in the woods."

Her answering smile sent waves of warmth to his very core as she nodded. "Then I will take the road." She turned and walked away from him through the entrance of the castle.

His eyes never wavered from her retreating form. He continued to watch even after she was no longer visible. Reaching up. he gently fingered the amulet. His urge to look at what was inside the leather pouch was strong, but he felt this was something that must be done when no one was watching.

As he sat there, contemplating this tiny, angelic child who was placed in his path, a sense of foreboding settled over him. It was so strong that he found himself upright and moving quickly to his horse outside the castle walls before his actions even registered in his brain. Panic set in. Shannon, his beautiful, six-year-old guardian angel, was in trouble, and he knew it. He had to get to her. He kicked his horse and moved quickly down the road leading away from the castle.

As he approached a sharp bend in the road that hid the path ahead, his heart sank. He knew he would find her around this bend. A woman’s wail sliced through the air and excised all the strength in his body. His horse kept moving forward until they rounded the corner, and he saw her, his little angel, Shannon. She was lying broken on the road ahead of him.

Dropping from his horse, he ran the rest of the distance to her. The hysterical woman, Shannon's mother, was being held back from Shannon's body by other children who were older than his angel, obviously her brothers and sisters.

Aengus knelt beside the beautiful child in the tattered dress and tears fell unashamedly down his face. He looked into her huge, lifeless, dark-blue eyes that were wide open and staring at the sky. She was gone.

He placed the beautiful wild rose in her hand and picked up her broken body, trying to wash away the feeling of isolation that her loss was reigniting in him. He rocked her body back and forth, crying for a child who had changed his life in a matter of minutes.

"I promise you, Shannon, I will heed your words and change my life. My soul is safe from the darkness because of you. I will never forget you, and you will be in my heart forever."

Soul Mates Reviews-

"Simply Captivating" - Nancy Silk - Goodreads

"The journey from 1323 to present day Phoenix, Arizona is written to perfection."  - Ashley Fontainne - Goodreads

"Sandy Wolters is a master wordsmith that weaves beautifully crafted tales of romance that make you a firm believer in happily ever after."  - Samantha Martin - Goodreads

Where to find this book-

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