Monday, March 2, 2015

Seven Deadly Kings

I came up with the idea for this book not long after I started The Wild Hunt. Chronologically I can't really start it until after Released Lilith:Part 2, and Soul Eater are written. It's been waiting to be tinkered with for years.

Like anything else, I never intended to get as side tracked as I have by other projects. By this time I was supposed to have written three more Wild Hunt Novella's, finished Released and guessed it...this son of a bitch.

I know that someday I'll get to it. Just as I want to write a book about Wanton (demon name for Las Vegas), I also want to write about these demon kings. They like the other monsters in my books interest me. Just as Lilith does. I wish I had some clue why Released is being such a little bitch to write. I got side-tracked by Mean Bitch, and now another idea has come to fruition.

I won't go too far into details only to say it is a YA with new monsters. I wish I had more hours in the freaking day. At the rate I'm going the ideas will be many and the books few. Let's hold out hope that my fingers don't fall off and I never go blind.

Anywho....this is the new evolving cover for the first book in The Seven Deadly Kings series. The name is workable, but I actually really enjoy the Charlie with sugar skull picture. I think I'll have a Halloween party or something involved.


It's no secret that I use my dreams for inspiration. Sometimes it's scary dreams that garner my attention. The terrifying revolving faces of demons that taunt and chase me. Sometimes its the sweet ache of a new or unrequited love. Dreams are full of inspiration.

Lately I've been having this reoccurring dream that slips away not long after I wake up. I'm left only with the distant impression that I have dreamed it before and that I am somehow connected to these creatures that are stalking me.

The point of this post is that dreams are full of crafty little bits of ideas but if you don't write them down then they aren't worth anything.

When I was in College I took this English course called Dreams and Interpretations. It was an excellent class. I absolutely loved it. One of the lessons, was especially exciting to me. It was a lesson written by or guest written by Stephen King. In the book Mr. King used examples from his novels about parts of them that were actually from his own dreams. Salem's Lot for instance was full of ripe terrifying descriptions straight from his subconscious imagination. He tweaked them of course but he said that to him the best writing happened when you were in a state of between. That cusp in-between awake and slumber, where dreams reside. It is in this foggy state that you can find or tap into a fountain of inspiration.

I think the best writing comes from this place. So many people ask me where my idea's come and most of the time I can't answer. Other books sometimes inspire, movies, music, real life horrors, trends, tweets, the truth is the idea comes from somewhere unknown. An unfathomable bottomless pit that is dark and murky and nameless.

Keep a dream journal. Keep it near you so you can write everything you remember down before it is gone. This morning I had a wonderful dream that I didn't write down. It's just wispy smoke now. The faint glimmer of shapes and feelings.

Write it down! The moment it hits you, the moment the synapses snap and meet and that fathomless pit spits up something substantial.

Sunday, February 15, 2015

Calling all Fellow Bitches!!!

It's that wonderful time...that natural high from an almost finished manuscript.

Mean Bitch is coming!! (ignore the pun)

I have some treats...first some words from our badass bitch herself...Cassandra.
"I am bound and kneeling before him...twisted nylon cord wrapped neatly around my wrists and torso. Usually, I enjoy the process. It's like letting go. Each knot is a decision I no longer have to make."
And the biggest present (again ignore the pun) The Book Trailer!!
Mean Bitch Book Trailer

Saturday, December 13, 2014

Christmas, reading...and other random sh*t

Christmas is different every year. Some years, I plan out my course of action. I have the kiddies make lists. I layaway items in October/November so that a chunk of my shopping is taken care of, and paid off in a general make my life easier mindset.

In past years I did none of these things. I waited until after Thanksgiving, and then, suddenly, as if spontaneously flying by, not unlike a dip in an Otherside river, December 1st is here and I had nothing done.

Luckily, this year, I planned ahead. And a good thing at that.

This is my rant.

I didn't pay our Direct T.V. bill.

Let me be more specific...two months ago.

Not because I'm an asshole, though admittedly I am, so is everyone. I didn't pay it because they signed us up for NFL ticket, another year of services I didn't want etc. We canceled our services, and left the rest to be...interpreted. We didn't receive a bill, we received calls. Dozens of them. Everyday for weeks. We told them, we wouldn't pay for services we didn't sign up for. We were done. Send us the boxes, bills, and so on.

They sent the boxes a week ago.

It is December 13th.

Right before Thanksgiving my father went into a Home for patients with Dementia/Alzheimers. It has been a shitty couple of weeks. He is not adjusting well. Wants to come home. Blames my brother...starts riots...gets agitated...hates life.

I hate it too sometimes...especially when my dad is so upset and all I want is for him to be safe, well fed, healthy, happy, and no longer lonely.

My dad used to live in the mountains. In a large house on five acres close to Yosemite. It was a beautiful house, and then his memory started slipping. It hurt to watch. To see him disappear a little at a time. He has Vascualar Dementia, which means it moves faster than normal Alzheimers. It's like a forest fire. We breath, and a little more burns away.

He can't read anymore...and I'm a writer. My father never got to sit down and read my stories. This breaks my heart. He always believed in my writing...even when I didn't know I was a writer.

Needless to say...with my dad's declining health, the holidays, just life in fucking general we didn't send the fucking Direct T.V. shit back.

Oh to have that moment when I didn't send it back.

Today, unbeknownst and without my approval, knowledge or okay, Direct T.V. debited my account. An account they were told not to debit months ago, when we stopped automatic payment. I am a moron.

My account is 475 dollars less today.

I called my bank.

They couldn't stop it.

The world can be major assholes at times. This is one of them. My kids Christmas just got raped. I feel violated. Angry. Sad and mean. I want to rip out spines. I want to breathe fire and burn buildings. Mostly I want for people to do what's right, when we live in a world full of wrong.

Fuck you Direct T.V.

Fuck you for your bullshit fee's, contracts and automatic payments. Fuck you for taking money, that may or may not belong to you on the eve of freaking Christmas.


In the long run, that money is never coming back. I could hear it in the poor bank woman's voice. I am screwed. But, there is a lovely silver lining. That 475 dollars will not break me. I can rise above. We are lucky. We have enough. Even if my kids get nothing else, they are okay. God will provide.

Now to the better part. I owe Direct T.V. nothing now. I changed my bank account information, and I get to tell people how much they suck.

Mostly, I feel sad. Not for me who is out five hundred bucks...but for the family that isn't as well off as mine, that got roped into Direct T.V.'s gimic and is now fucked in a way that I am not. They won't get presents this year, while my spoiled brats will. They may not have electricity or heat. They may not have a nice new car in the driveway or a beautiful Victorian roof over their head. I am an asshole in this instance. There are people out there with real legitimate problems. Going hungry, going without, the real people in need.

So I want to give back somehow. I want to walk into Kmart and pay off some stranger's layaway. I want to give the bum in the rain a shiny crisp hundred dollar bill. Because he needs it more than I do.

That's the whole point of this season give back. To celebrate Jesus in all his glory. Sure he'd see the injustice of my situation but he also teaches to turn the other cheek. I usually try to avoid a whole lot of religious beliefs in my posts. I don't like to alienate anyone. Though I believe in God, and Jesus Christ my heart does not allow me to believe in a God that thinks my religion is better than yours.

I refuse to live in that world.

Merry Christmas...and if you feel the need to give back, give to someone who really needs it this season.

Tuesday, November 18, 2014

Dear Readers.....I suck.'s pretty much there in the title. I had to pull Released...again because it still isn't finished. I don't know what's happening but it certainly isn't writing. I can't seem to get a grip on how to finish it. I know what I want to happen, where the story is supposed to go...and yet, every time I sit down to write the crickets freaking chirp. I've added multiple POV I have a million ideas several different endings and still....nothing. NOTTA. Zip.

Amazon has suspended me. I can not pre-order sale books for one year. Did this happen to Karen Marie Moning when she delayed the Burned release but TWO years? No....nor am I in a caliber similar with Miss Moning but...I can still whine. Write...not so much...but my whining abilities are loud and clear.

So I got suspended. Which means I had to seriously consider it before such a thing occurred but here's the good news. I will not put out a half-assed crap version of a book that doesn't want to be written. I will not pander some icky story to you in the hopes of making cash.

But even with my suspension...and probable alienation and loss of friends, family, and my valuable all important readers, I still suck more than Kristen Stewart in Twilight. I suck more than a naked Miley licking a sledge hammer and swinging on a metal ball. I suck more than Beiber in his ultimate suck of Beiberhood. I suck more than that shitty off-shot episode on Supernatural for that shitty new show that never was and never should be. And that right there is the ultimate in suckage. Because nothing except that episode sucks more than the Beib's. Nothing.

In other news...I am not writing anything else so this stalemate is all encompassing. YEAH....not. In the words of Garth. Holy crap I forgot how funny that movie is. I know I show my age but whateve's I can like Wayne's World, Supernatural, good non-pop music that hardly ever gets played on the radio and yes...I can quote Finn and Jake because even though I suck...I don't suck that badly. Take that Beibs.

Wednesday, July 9, 2014

Embarking on the unknown

Back before I decided to finally write...I still wrote. I wrote down idea's, dreams, everything I cared about or ever wanted to do. I think I was born to write. I took a class when I moved to the town I now call home. It was an English course at the local Junior College I was still a baby. Nineteen years old. The class was a higher course, thank you very much test scores, and it was about Dreams and Interpretations and how to use them in creative writing. It is the only College course I have taken on creative writing.

I have no desire to sully that great experience. I loved my class. There was even a lovely section in the book written by Stephen King about his use of dreams in his writing. This made a monumental impact on me as a person and a writer. Now back to the ideas I used to write down. When I was in high school I had one big idea. This idea of course was most first attempts are. I wrote down notes, and pages and pages of written dialogue and scenes.

When my grandma passed away, I found this huge pile of writings and cried as I went through them. Only God knows why she kept them, but I am forever grateful that she did. My first ideas, and the others that I wrote down when I worked at Cigna, were all thrillers. I love thrillers, I happen to enjoy them quite a bit. But I don't love them the way I love Harry Potter, The Hollows, and Stephen King, pretty much anything paranormal or with shape shifters...mostly werewolves.

Recently I finished The Otherside (queue obnoxious loud howling for myself by myself, yes I am that pathetic) I am supposed to be working on Lilith's not exactly happening. I tinker with Soul Eater, I open and close Lilith, and then for some reason a few months ago I thought, I'm jumping on the stupid Fifty Shades of Grey bandwagon and writing something smutty!

Why would I do this?

I read Fifty...and though terrible and cringe worthy at times I salivated. That damn pair of warn jeans with one button undone makes me hot...No shit. I like me a good erotic novel. Megan Hart is queen of the orgasm. Holy Crap if you want to read something smutty and amazing read Collision, or Deeper. They are so hot you'll sweat.

Back to my point...I am writing something smutty. Something that terrifies me, challenges me, and freaks me the fuck out. I don't normally do horribly graphic sex scenes. I don't by choice because even though I enjoy reading it, writing it is a whole nother ballgame. I hate cheese, like not the dairy product, but the heaving bosom, quivering womanhood fucking cheese. Dude there is nothing more annoying than a female that says her lady bits, her who-haa, her vayjayjay, fucking hell, call it a pussy, call it a cock and lets be done with this shit.

I've read some atrocious romance and I have to skip some of these horrifyingly juvenile parts. Sex doesn't have to be graphic, but lets not baby talk it either I mean my God, who-haa. Hit me, seriously just slap me, it'll annoy me less.

Back to the point I keep falling from, I'm doing something I haven't done before. Is it because of the trend...a little...its mostly out of curiosity. I read enough of the dirty hot smut to wonder if I can pull it off...guess we'll find out.

Oh YEAH...the book, or books...if it works out are the MEAN STREAK series, and the first book is named...drum roll please....MEAN BITCH

I happen to be pretty fucking proud of this cover. It is AWESOME. I did it myself. Queue another round of obnoxious clapping!

Monday, June 30, 2014

The Otherside of writing book #4

Every new book is a journey. I learn something about myself and the world around me. It's an adventure. Sometimes, that adventure leaves me jaded. It's like I am embarking into a huge cavernous world without a flashlight. I stumble, I fall, I make mistakes.

Except, every book gives me a little more night vision. During the first I was blind. No light was there to help guide me. I had no idea what I was doing. I read books on writing and read even more books studying other authors craft and I surged ahead. Reading about something and doing it are two very different things. You can prepare for the hurdles others have warned you about, you can ready your mind for the skull splitting amount of space a story will occupy.

I don't know how I can hold a novel in my head and not die of an aneurism. I don't know how Stephen King in his crown of superior Authorhood isn't a twitching vegetable. He has created so many stories. And though after you have written them that laser like focus dissipates, you don't forget them. They are parts of you. Each character carries some attribute that you can relate to. The protagonist that had issues with abandonment. The hero who fights the demon voices that tell him he is not good enough.

People are shards of broken pieces. They are jagged and sharp. They can cut you and harm you. They do not always fit together. These are the characters I love. The walking contradictions. The sweet face and petite frame of the cussing protagonist with so much personality its a wonder it can fit inside her small body. I love her. She is a small fraction of the person I am. A pebble out of the brook.

This is my fourth novel. Two of which were not nearly as long as this puppy. This is the biggest novel I have written so far. 127,000 + words. I didn't know I had that many words inside me. It's always a surprise to watch the numbers tick higher on the word count. It amazes me. I hope that feeling never goes away.

Writing has become a sort of therapy. That stumbling in the dark reveals so much about human nature, my nature. The nature of the imperfect creatures we are born. This fourth novel has made my vision in that cave a little sharper. A lighter in my hand to find the way. Someday I'd like to think I'll hold a flashlight, then maybe a spotlight, and eventually maybe even a whole room in that cave will be engulfed by light.

Write what you father once told me.

It's a shame that his disease makes him incapable of seeing what I've done. I'll continue writing my stories. I hope you will continue to read them.
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