Titles - Oh, the Terror

Titles. It's something writers stress over, possibly even more than the dreaded synopsis, for if you can't create a stunning title for your written gem, it might not ever get noticed. The title is important for marketing, for recognition (so readers know it's the one their friends were going on about last week at lunch), for grabbing attention in that giant sea of titles out there.

So what's the best way to create a fantastic title?

Here's some tips:

1. Think about what the story is about - the ideas behind it, the plot, the characters. Write down any and all words that relate to anything tied to the tale. Fill the page, or pages, with as many nouns and verbs as you can.
2. Cross out ones that are too cumbersome, bland, overused, or otherwise not pleasant. 
3. What's left? It might seem like a jumbled mess, but start rearranging those darling words anyway, add conjunctions, prepositions, adjectives - don't be afraid to get wild with it. Keep it simple, keep it catchy, keep it connected to something in your story. 
4. You'll be left with a list of a few groups of words, some you'll cross off just because they don't click, others might be so-so. If you can't pick out one with a "That's it!" kind of feeling, hold on to a few good ones while you write, chances are, as the story and characters unfold, one of those options will get stronger, or change a bit to reach that point. 

A bonus step is to Google your choices to see if any other book, blog, movie, painting, or other artistic expression out there has a similar title, or the same. If so, ask yourself if you need to adjust your title or if it's good to have it similar to the other book, blog, movie - well, you get the point.

The title is often your book's first impression (its cover the second), so great care needs to be given to those first few words the world will see. It can seem like an impossible task, but if you do the steps above, use a thesaurus to make your choices more vast, have fun playing with words, you can create just the right one for the job. 

Attention spans

Attention spans. Now there is something I know a little about. Having raised my three girls, I can remember times where I struggled to grab and then hold their attention either for school work or chores or what not. "Stay on task" was something not easily done. Yet my middle girl would sit in the middle of the chaos with a book in her hand, completely absorbed and oblivious to anything around her. A book.

So when I saw another blog making comments about today's youth not being interested in books due to addictions to cell phones, Ipads, email, facebook, twitter and the like, I'm afraid I can't fully agree. I've been immersed in the younger crowd with my kids, their friends, and my nieces and nephews. What impresses me is the number of kids nowadays who love books.

As my middle daughter, and now my youngest say, books can take you somewhere nothing else can. I had a technology addict (my oldest), but even she is more interested in living life now. The arrival of technology for books (Kindle, Nook etc) has blended the two, but I still hear from so many how reading a book in actual print is so much better.

Being an author and an editor, I've known there is a difference between reading on screen and reading print for me, at least. Recently I read an article bringing up the question of how our brains take in print words differently than electronic ones. No studies that I know of are complete on the actual differences, but there are many opinions on the subject. Read this article from The Chronicles of Higher Education here  just to get you started.

For me, growing up in the '80s, and raising my girls through the 90s and 2000s, I'm seeing a trend that encourages kids to read. Some won't, we can't all love books, but in my opinion, the percentage of those who know the value of a good, print book has gone up from when I was a kid. Electronic for some does the same. Either way, we all still love a good story to whisk us away and give us an escape like nothing else can. That, I hope, will never change.

Writers Never Stop Learning

I remember when my writing grew from something more than a kid jotting in notebooks to something I  might actually be good at. It was a wild and crazy thought, just out of high school with no great grades in any English (now called Language Arts) class. And I sure wasn't brave enough to let many people ever even look at a page I'd written.

I credit my parents really. I had the opportunity to take a creative writing course, one I couldn't afford, yet my enrollment happened anyway - didn't take me long to figure out who made that happen. My mom has always been my biggest fan, and my biggest critic when I needed someone to point out when something was bad.  I learned a lot in that two year course. But it wasn't enough. I gobbled up "How-To" books on all topics related to writing. Articles and stories from Ray Bradbury, Dean Koontz, Stephen King, Mary Higgins Clark and many others taught me how to improve my techniques for suspense, horror, and fantasy weekly. And I wrote nearly every night after tucking my girls into bed.

I worked with editors for my first book and got some bites from publishers, but things just didn't sit right with me, the changes they wanted, the things they demanded. I kept studying, kept writing.

I published my first book in 2002. I had people coming to me for advice shortly after, got invited to offer novel writing workshops for Long Story Short School of Writing, workshops I still teach. I keep writing.

And I'm still learning. I've made mistakes in my writing, but I'm learning from them and fixing them. The biggest lesson I had to learn was that my voice, just the way it is, is fine -- readers like it. I have a couple titles where I tried to listen to editors or the well meant advice of other writers, but I did not do myself any favors by letting my style and voice get muddled. I've worked that out now, but I'm still learning.

If I live to be ninety years-old and write fifty novels, I'll still be learning. And I wouldn't want it any other way.

Once Upon a Time

Okay, so Specters of the Lawless doesn't really start like the title of this blog post, it has started. Here's a little sampling of the first draft:

Prologue

The snap of the woman’s neck dropped the crowd into silence, all but the three youngsters tied and standing below the gallows. A scream broke louder than the youngest’s sobs. A bellowed promise that they would all pay.

“You hear that?” Uncle asked, his face painted with lines of anger and contempt.

Eagan peered up into his father’s much gentler eyes, eyes that mirrored the will for mercy.

“Brother, they’re just children,” Father said.

A sneer angled Uncle’s jaw strangely. “Every enemy began as a child,” he said.  He turned and descended the stairs, shouting out to the young girl, then ordering her instant death.

Eagan dashed to the left, following the twin set of stairs out the opposite side, ignoring his father’s shout.

The girl was not much older than he, maybe thirteen, but she was slighter, small and thin like all the woods people. Her hair was dark and tangled, as dark as her eyes. Uncle said their eyes were black like their souls, but Eagan had gotten close enough to see the irises, which appeared black, were truly a rich deep brown. When he asked his father, he learned it was a very normal eye color in some areas, not at all indicative of the soul like Uncle claimed.

He ran faster than his uncle walked, shouted at the unsheathed swords and raised rifles, and leaped from the lowest landing to take a stance before the girl who shepherded her two younger siblings behind her despite her bound hands and being trapped between the weapons and the gallows where their mother still hung.

His young legs were not fast enough. The air was still heated from the laser blasts when he whirled to face the girl. Her expression had softened to a wince of pain. Tears still dripped from her lashes and beautiful eyes so deep and full. Instinct had him clutching her shoulders when she faltered. The two youngest lay dead behind her, their souls already lost, but she remained standing, her hands clamped around his wrists. He sank to the ground with her, nothing else existing but her. He didn’t even know her name.

Her tears dried, her full attention only on him.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “Please, don’t go.” He wanted to help, wanted to take the pain away, wanted to stop the leaking of her life. He held her, gripped her more tightly when she could no longer stay upright, willed her life to remain even as her gaze wavered, locked on his, but then went blank with no light within. He clenched his eyes against the sight of it, but even in the darkness he saw her.

Anger grew through him, worming deep to his gut, fraying his young mind. The vicious grip of a large hand around his collar, yanking him away from her, snapped him back to reality. He shuddered at the hateful expression on his uncle's round face.

“Put him down, Amras.”

Eagan pulled his head to the left, startled by the stern look on his father’s face. Whispers rose up from all around.

“Of course,” Uncle said.

Air rushed down Eagan’s throat so quickly it nearly choked him. He fell to his hands and knees only to be pulled upright a second later to peer up at his father and away from the dead girl.

“Never falter,” his father said. “Keep your feet, keep your head.” Then Eagan was gently nudged behind him.

Other things were said between the brothers, none of which Eagan heard. Father guided him back up the stairs with an apology for subjecting him to such an event. It was just to be a lesson in law and consequences. Father had no idea the woman had children or that they would be involved.

Eagan snuffed out the bedside lamp that night a different boy with new understanding and the memory of the girl with beautiful brown eyes.

I am a writer

I was a writer before I was an author. I was a writer before I was an artist. I was a writer before I started editing, teaching, publishing, and all that. I've been a writer for more than twenty years with twelve published novels. I recently finished a 7 book series -- big relief. Then something happened. While I had a little success a few weeks ago with starting my next book, it was mostly because I know the writing tricks now to force it. Problem is, forcing it only happens for so long and there is no passion in it, nothing to carry it forward. Each word feels like the yanking of a tooth. That doesn't make for promising results.

I have to chase away the naysayer comments erupting from the back of my mind. Saying I'm not good enough, saying no one wants to see the world like I do or read a story my imagination creates.

I am a writer, and I am very good at what I do. My stories are deep, crafted, and not predictable. My characters are developed, real, with heart and soul. I know this. Now I have to work on truly believing it.

Specters of the Lawless will be no different in those respects despite it being a different kind of tale for me. I'm actually looking forward to the unique aspects of it now. If only I can find the time to devote to it. Hopefully soon.

Introverts can have fun too

I am wholly an introvert, this I've always known. I'm more at ease in my office alone pouring over words I've written, words I'm editing, or words I'm reading just for fun. Words I understand. Using my fingers to create words or art either on screen or on paper is how I best communicate. Words do not travel from my mind to my mouth very well at all. Still, I was determined to get out into the world this year. To let others know my books and my art exist. Everything was starting to feel pointless. What was I writing and painting for?

This was a wild and dangerous thing for me, but I had to do something.  It started with the Pittsburgh Comicon. I've gone to the show for a couple years and found the artwork and all so inspiring. I couldn't hope to even compare to any there with my art, but my books, my stories maybe had a place there. I enjoyed meeting Star author D. Benfer in person, and artist Byron Winton and many others. I loved talking with so many new people immensely but  have to admit it was tiring to constantly eat out and sleep on a strange bed. And, I'm sorry to say, I spent a great deal of time in my hotel room behind the closed door.

This past weekend, I had a table at the first Sci-Fi convention which just happened to be only a few minutes away from my home. I had a phenomenal time at this smaller convention, finding it easier to talk to my booth neighbors this time. I had the pleasure of getting to know author J. Powell Ogden from Ohio and author Kelly Martin from West Virginia just to name two. I also had vast opportunities to talk to so many people about my books and a little about my art, but the best part was hearing about them, what they liked, seeing their costumes, discovering from where they traveled.

I must thank all those who stopped by my booth and showed interest in my work. I do hope those who purchased one of my titles find an escape in an enjoyable adventure within the pages. And I look forward to doing this again soon.

The only downfall of being home every night - the dishes pile up along with the clutter. But this time the office doesn't look like a wild animal was turned loose within the walls. I was back to work with words again today, and I do think I may even be able to start on my new story, Specters of the Lawless. After I catch up on my sleep, Star work, and housework, that is :-)

A Tribute...

I remember my grandfather well. His waves of snowy white hair and crystal blue eyes behind dark framed glasses, the blue-jean overalls he wore and the pickup he drove to work. I remember him doing plumbing and fixing furnaces, tending the cattle and barn work, and farming the fields. I also remember the evenings after the meal we in my family call supper. His chair at the table had arm rests and he would lean back, prop his stocking feet up on the nearby empty chair and rub them together. All the while the adults (usually just him, my mom, and my grandmother) discussed current topics, local, and national. He always had a distinct opinion of what was right and wrong, of how people should be treated, what things would make circumstances better for all, not just great for a few. I saw and heard it all.

I remember his struggle with the illness that took him from our family when I was just a teen, the rock, the strength. Cancer is so cruel. The man who loved us all and knew what should and shouldn't be done. I remember feeling a shattering of all, a distinct undercurrent of massive change. I also remember my early twenties when I finally found peace with what had happened to this man who was so much to so many. And I swore I would live up to his beliefs, his honor.

True, I didn't know him in his younger years. I've lived long enough now to know he surely made his own mistakes in his early years. He was not a perfect man, but he taught me so much. He taught me that family is everything and that we should respect our differences. If he judged anyone, I was never aware of it. He never picked favorites or blatantly talked bad of anyone. He would dislike decisions, yes, but never looked badly at the one who made the decision. True I was just a child, and children were not involved in adult things back then. The feeling I always got though, from all those hours observing and listening to the adults talk at the supper table, was one that stayed with me. He put you in your place when you needed it how ever harshly he needed to (we are Irish after all), but he was not ever cruel. He was fair and just. He played guitar, raised livestock, farmed fields, respected the land, and created art with wood -  shelves, grandfather clocks, porch gliders. He laughed and he cried, but most of all, he loved us all.

In his memory, during my early twenties, I promised to treat all with respect, stand up for what was right. Do right by anyone I met, never do harm to any or hurt anyone, or cause undo stress on anyone for any reason on purpose. And I have done so and will continue to do so to the best of my abilities.

It saddens me to know I have many cousins who didn't get the chance to make memories with this man. It saddens me just as much that he is not here to give stability to an ever increasing avalanche of bad events ripping apart what once was good, shattering bonds for what? I truly do not know. A twisted and ugly mess. And I wonder how, why (that I will never understand), and I hope and pray he is not watching, that he rests in peace.

I will live to honor his memory, as will my children. There are things you just do not do to anyone, let alone family. I remember even if others do not. I'm sorry grandpap, that I couldn't do more. But I promise I will never be a part of any hate or harm to anyone. And I promise to teach my children the same. In your name, I promise that.

And I will always remember you well....

To Outline or Not to Outline

When I first began studying the writing craft in the early 1990s, everything I heard and read about starting a novel included full blown outlines. Some encouraged plotting out each scene and each chapter. I tried it, but accomplished nothing except a full wastebasket.

I can't say what the best way to write a novel is, only that each writer has to find their own tools. Getting through the sticky middle is the hardest part, and some do need that outline to plod through the swamp. For me, though, if I did a full-blown outline, my characters stopped doing everything except sitting in their interview chair, drumming their fingers and looking at me with a cocked brow and a "are you serious" kind of look in their eyes. My characters don't like being told what to do anymore than I do.

I can still get stuck in the swampy middle though, so I had to find a way to make it all work for me and my pig-headed characters. It's simple really. I get to know the characters inside and out, their dreams, fears, hopes, what they love, what they dislike, what their goals are, what haunts their dreams, what fills their fantasies, clear down to what they like to eat and drink to their habits, all of it. But none of it is set in stone. I always give them room to grow or change their minds. Then I decide on the one pivotal act that sends the characters on their downward slide. That is where the beginning is. And I always know what the ending will be - not how it happens but the end result. I often know a handful of important events that lead to the end, but basically my characters have free rein.

All of that is how my books have come to be reviewed as having the best surprise endings. It's because I don't plan how, just the "what." The characters, in all their individuality and with their choices, drive the "how." Sometimes it's far far away from how I would like things to go. But that's a whole other story :)

Where do ideas come from?

The short answer to the question of where I (and most writers) get their ideas is: everywhere. Then add imagination, sometimes exaggeration, a dash of the author, and it can be magic.

For me, my stories start with a character and a simple element after which I ask "what if" to just about every aspect my imagination can create from those. For my first book, it was a character who felt like an outcast. My second novel, Gone Before Dawn, grew from a nightmare I'd had and was fed by research I did of my local area. Each element of it, the graveyard, the haunted apple tree, the mansion, all of it came from places I knew around my local area.

The Manipulated Evil Trilogy came about after 9/11 and what followed. I felt helpless which gave rise to a character who was anything but and a story that grew into something much bigger than I had ever planned. The jumping off point for Rise of the Arcadians was the dynamics of a big family inside global climate change and how cycles might change the world from what we know today. Among the Ancients started to form as I was researching ancient mysteries - like how did they move the immense stones that make up Stone Henge or the walls of Sacsayhuaman - and what would a man do if he was suddenly face to face with the answers? Or possible answers. :-)

The whole of the seven book Disillusionment Series grew from my constantly asking the question "what if" while researching the beliefs of the ancient Sumerians.

My next book, well, the idea for it started from something my middle daughter once said. A story where the bad guy might be good or the good guy might be bad or... well, you get the point. Pieces of other things are also filtering in.

Ideas can come from personal experiences, the morning newspaper or news report, research of the past, movies, other books, or anything at all. An author's job is to people the idea with unique and complete characters to bring it all to life and keep it as unpredictable as possible. The stronger the characters, the easier that is to do. So, I suppose, knowing a bit about human psychology helps a lot with that. Each personality will react differently to any given circumstance, and there is where the fun really begins...

Why do I write thrillers and fantasies

When I was taking my writing classes, the assignments required me to write several different types of stories. When they became more free for all, I wrote what I wished to write and it was always in suspense, thriller, or horror. My instructor asked me once to write something light and airy like a romance or a children's story. So I did. Let's just say she politely told me to stay with the darker genres lol. I just couldn't get the emotional feel into it that was so strong in my other pieces. Many of my stories do have a romantic or humorous twist in them, it's just never the main focus.

I had one early reader of my books, a woman who knew me from my childhood, ask me why I wrote things so "dark." I have to admit it perplexed me because I never viewed my stories as "dark" exactly. Sure, my characters are dealing with dire situations, but the overall feel of my tales, then and now, centers around hope and perseverance no matter how dark the situations get for the characters.

I don't know why I write in the genres I do, I just know it's where my writing is strongest and where my inspiration takes off. Thrillers, horrors, and fantasies are also what I choose in movies, books, and other entertainment as well. Fantasy is not a genre I chose and it started gradually, but it is where my imagination took me. In my fantasy books, I stay grounded in reality but can stretch it and have fun with the "what if" possibilities.

I'm not a "dark" person at all. I like to laugh, have fun, and play in the sun. But when I write, I like to keep readers on the edges of their seats until the very end. And that, I'm told, is a very good thing.

What comes first, plot or characters?

The very first book signing I did, I remember one customer asking me: what comes first, the plot or the characters? Without hesitation, my answer is and will always be the characters.

It is my opinion that without strong characters, a story feels empty. Readers must be able to relate to those in the tale; to build a level of concern, sympathy or at least curiosity for the person they are meeting within the pages. That requires a character to have as much depth as a living, breathing person.

To build those characters, I first decide where they've come from; what is their background? Then the question is: how do they feel about that, how did it shape them? From there it's time to decide what their dreams and fears are, what kinds of things fuel their anger or fear or give them peace. What do they love, what do they dislike. And of course, it never hurts to learn their favorite foods, music, entertainment, whatever is relevant to the tiniest detail of their lives. It's different building a character for a story set in the here and now of what we all know than it is for developing a character to populate a setting hundreds or even thousands of years in the future, but the principles all stay the same. It's imperative for the author to get to know them like a best friend. What kinds of foods do they order at a restaurant or carry in their supply pack, what do they do with their free time, how do they react to uncomfortable situations? And the list goes on and on.

That is where all my stories start. From there I throw a few incidents at them, ones which start propelling a story forward. It is their reactions to the few set things I know the story needs - dictated by what I know about them and their world - that drives its every step. And that is how my stories are known for twists and turns and surprises that are true to the characters, but unexpected all the same.

Why do I write so often in a male point of view?

Over the years I've been asked many questions about my writing. I've been writing -- seriously working the craft -- since the early 1990s. During all this time, some questions have been asked over and over - why I write in the point of view of so many male characters is one of them.

My first book featured 17 year old Codey Mathews as the star character. He was center stage and did not share it with a female lead. I don't know why, it was just the way the book unfolded. My second book featured a young mother, Cierra Lancing, but she shared the main stage with her confidant, Tristan Durant. It was important to show readers what was going on when Cierra wasn't with him. The Manipulated Evil Trilogy balanced out between female and male points of view but the girls won out by one in the end. Rise of the Arcadians, Desire and Rand shared that stage evenly, like Bryce and Kynly did for Among the Ancients. With the Disillusionment Series, it's also been fairly equal, but I have to say Tarenek has been the most fun to write, and yes, he's male.

I guess the answer is that I really don't have an explanation for it. I've never had anyone complain, but a few have been surprised when they discover I'm a woman. I write the characters as they come to me, not paying any attention to gender - only to character personality. The owner of any particular scene is the POV I write. In all my stories, I use multiple POVs to show readers the full scope of what's happening to change everyone. From there, it's just how it all works out.

The Beginning of the End

By now most everyone has heard at least a mention of the Mayan Calendar and the general assumption is that the end of their calendar, which falls on December 21, 2012, is also the end of our world. Then there is the prophecy of the Hopi Indians. And of course there was the movie 2012. There are dozens and dozens of other stories, articles, Youtube videos, and blogs on the subject. Theories ranging from world ending events to the arrival of a higher consciousness abound.

I would like to believe some ability of deeper understanding for us humans could come about by the end of this grand new year, but my logical side is more inclined to believe any change that may happen will be so undetectable it won't be noticed.

It doesn't mean it's all lost though. 2012 sure can fuel ideas for a fiction author, especially one of fantasy and thrillers like me.

So, while theories continue to build about the true meaning of December 21, 2012 (maybe they merely ran out of room on their stone, or the stone containing 2013 and beyond was lost), I'll work on finishing Retribution: Disillusionment Book Seven, the final book of the series before December, and starting on a new tale. Not sure if I hope for another series so soon or not, but I'll go where the characters lead. Whether there's an end looming on the horizon or a beginning, or maybe both, I'm looking forward and forging on with new goals and projects.

Hopefully you can do the same with your year. Make 2012 a good one.

Amazingly... stumped

Mankind as a whole tends to be viewed as advanced - right? I mean, we've populated a planet, erecting houses, skyscrapers and other constructions. We've electrified and lit up a good portion of the dry land so brightly it's seen from space, we've connected households around the world by the world wide web and multiple other miraculous achievements.

Yet, we misunderstand each other daily and fight over differences in opinions, religions, and just about any other thing we can disagree about. And on another level, one computer program to another can't run peacefully together, each car takes a different kind of wiper, oil filter, and the list goes on and on. Things are not made to work together, but to compete. Personally, I think, life is getting harder and harder because of it. Why can't we all just work together?

Oh, this latest run through philosophy my brain has taken, it all started with computer troubles. I pondered how nice life was before these horrible finicky contraptions we spend so much time on these days. I would have a little bit of an issue going back to an old typewriter or pen and tablet to get the stories that grow in my head out, but I could probably adjust and be better for it for having removed the stress of getting the programs all to play nice together - online and off.

So I sit and wonder just how far we have really come as a species. Seems like we still have eons of learning to do.

New Release

My twelfth novel has just come out. I have the first copies in my office now and expect the purchase links to show up for Curse of the Gods: Disillusionment Book Five to appear soon. I'm eager for others to read Tarenek's story, but am diving right into the polishing of book six and the writing of book seven to hopefully finish the series next year and start something fresh.

But for now, I'm focused on the Disillusionment Series - futuristic fantasy where mortal humans are fighting the gods to save their world. If you aren't familiar with it yet, take a peek. You might like what you find.

Chipmunks and Recovery

In 2003, we cleared out a small patch of woods and built a foundation for a doublewide trailer. We attempted to keep a couple grown trees in front of the house, but ice had different ideas and took one down the first few months we were in the house. It was the following summer that I realized a chipmunk (at least one) was living in the flower bed I built around the stump and remaining tree. That chipmunk, while adorable to watch proved to terrorize constantly over the years.

He caught my car on fire by bunching up a cluster of dry grass and sticks against the engine. He chewed off wires to throw the car sensors into a mess. He dug up roots to perennials I tried to plant, and bulbs never came up. He terrorized more by jumping out from under the porch each time you went out - squeaking and chattering to startle even when we expected it. I wondered when he would get bored of those pesky instances and move into the house to cause some real damage.

Our dog tried to dig him out. I tried to persuade him to move down back. We even transplanted one to my parent's house - completely by accident since he hitched a ride under the car somewhere. For a bit I had hope that the chipmunk was gone. It didn't take long for another to take its place. They were safe up here in front of the house, away from any predators. My daughter and I had standoffs with the chipmunk, attempting to chase him down, but those things can climb trees far too fast. The thing bordered on the fringe of funny to a little scary. I tried filling up his little tunnels all through my front flower garden. Tried laying big rocks over them, tried everything.

In amongst that time, my twelve year old suffered the loss of three dear pets to multiple skunk attacks - ducks she had gotten after a school project. Her oldest sister moved out. We lost a dear friend who walked out of our lives for no reason other than misunderstandings that left us fully in the dark. We lost security when my dad nearly died and his health remained hampered. We lost great grandparents, and had our faith in humanity shaken to the foundations for the mess that happened over my dad - a mess still not untangled yet. And there were dozens of dark little things too.

My youngest would grip me often in a tight hug and whisper "why does it all have to go bad at once?" I had no answer for her other than "I don't know, all we can do is carry on - try to focus on the small good things" while my heart broke again. She's only twelve and so kind-hearted. How do you make anything all right again, how do you help her feel safe again? I just hug her back and keep my teary eyes well hidden. Too much change or hurt too fast for all of us, especially my youngest.

Things are better now, but we are still balancing on a board that could tip one way or the other at any moment. The bad isn't done for any of us yet - things will continue to change drastically and leave empty spots for a year or so yet. I'm ready. I can only hope my youngest will be too.

This past week a family of four cats stopped by for a visit. One adult, a larger kitten, and two small kittens. I have no idea where they came from. They were not tame, running from us the moment they saw us. But my youngest would rush home from school and sit out on the porch to watch the kittens. Each day she did this until the one would go to her and purr under her hand. The other is close but still a little skittish. Then one day they were gone.

Cats don't stay around here long. We've lost more than I care to count either to wild animals, sickness, or other cats in fights. That's why I wouldn't get her one. I didn't want to see her heart broken again. She wondered about these two kittens she had befriended, but since they weren't technically ours, she wasn't painfully attached. Two days later, as I was making supper, I looked up to see the two little cats prancing across the road, headed for our driveway. I hollered to Shay that I found the cats. She rushed out and spent some time with them. Our visiting cats.

The chipmunk that has terrorized seems to be gone. Whether the cats "got 'im" or just chased him off, I don't know. I'm just thrilled to not have the little critter sitting all pretty on the stump, cleaning himself after he chewed off another plant or car wire. A constant little nag - now gone.

The cats seem to have gone back to wherever they came from again, but I'm fairly certain they'll be back for visits now. Could be they like Shay's company or the chicken bones she gives them. Either or, it works. And she's genuinely smiling again. For at least a little while, her mind is on something good again.

The chipmunk is gone for the moment and my youngest is smiling. All over the family of cats that just happened upon our house one day before the freak October 2011 snow storm.... Life is a mystery...

Ravyn of Tiernaine - The Unseen

Ravyn of Tiernaine (first person point of view, but the books are written in 3rd.)

Seriously, you want me to talk about myself? Are you kidding me? I don’t stick around long and am only here for one purpose. Things aren’t right. Something isn’t right, and I need to make sure it’s not what I think it is. Because if it is, if Rhynon has arrived, things won’t end well.

I don’t have time for things like this either. Have to look after my kid brother and sister. Promised I would. Promised who? Our mother, if you must know. No, she’s not around, hasn’t been for a long time. Enough about that.

I need to keep moving, make sure they don’t find me because if he gets close enough, I’ll have to break for it and keep him from finding the other Guardians. Don’t ask me about them, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you. Few ever do, course, not like we go around announcing who we are. Better if we don’t. Hope you never need to know about us.

I hope the same about D’Arcy, but he’s poking around, poking where he shouldn’t be. I tried to warn him off nicely, but it apparently didn’t work. I’ll have to stop him, somehow. If he can be stopped. I swear, sometimes people just aren’t all that smart.

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Read the first short piece I (the author) wrote for this character HERE. The Escape didn't get a spot in the print book, but it was the first building block for Ravyn and her background.

Character Ramblings One

As requested, I've written up some small pieces from each of my characters to introduce them to the world in this blog. Characters are the most important thing in my writing. They drive my plots, keeping them fresh and unpredictable because the characters control it with their choices, choices that change as the story changes them.

I didn't realize how many characters I had until I started trying to do a small piece in first person (even though all my books are in third person) for each of them. Then the question became where to start. I decided to start with my well known Manipulated Evil Trilogy. The three books have several characters you will experience the story through. Kyle D'Arcy is the first and main character...

The Unseen, Scattered Souls, and Scorching Eden - the three titles of the Manipulated Evil Trilogy:

From Kyle D’Arcy of Earth, young college student from Pennsylvania, Altoona, Johnstown area.

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Having your life ripped apart isn’t fun. I mean, if someone would’ve told me my old man was going to be murdered, I would’ve laughed at them. That stuff doesn’t happen, you know? Except it did, and then this woman shows up, I’ve never seen anyone like her, but man, did she have me. She flat out disappears, vanishes, but my old man had her picture in his wallet, and he’s not the type to go around with anyone like her. He’s a geneticist, cancer research, mostly, I think. Or he was anyway. Back when life was normal.

Now I need to find out who killed him and why. I have to find those answers. Can’t explain it really, but the second I saw that girl in person, things aren’t right, not as they should be, and that warning she gave me. What the hell was that, right? Appearing out of nowhere right on top of me after she vanished from in front of me with that threat she claimed was a warning – to not trust anyone in authority, to let my dad’s death go, that she’ll deal with the one who murdered him. Yeah right, and I’m not supposed to think she’s involved, or maybe even pulled that trigger.

I have a responsibility to find the answers. I may not have gotten along with Dad all the time, should’ve talked to him instead of avoiding him when he told me he had something he needed to tell me a couple weeks ago, but I’m sure going to make it right. She’s not going to get away with whatever it is she did…

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Tarenek Brye Annis has arrived!

The Freedom Wars: Disillusionment Book Four is freshly released, just now popping up at the online stores such as Amazon and Barnes and Noble. The first printed copies of the highly anticipated book arrived on my doorstep last week for those who ordered autographed copies, and those who will order.

The Freedom Wars is the first title of the seven book series to showcase the grown son, Tarenek, of demigod parents and the harborer of a vicious power never before successfully contained in a "human" body. The question is, will Tarenek be able to defy the odds and his predicted demise, and will he be enough to keep Earth's people free of the slaving race that considers themselves the Pure Ones and the gods of the galaxy.

If you are interested in purchasing this or any of my titles autographed for yourself or as a gift for someone else, please visit my website at www.tcmcmullen.com or email me at tcmcauthor(a)hotmail.com for details on how (I removed the @ symbol to protect against spammers).

The natural order of things...

If I've learned anything lately, it's to not speak a date or time I plan to have something finished. I'm not sure why - if I'm being taught patience or if I'm subconsciously sabotaging myself, but ever since my return to work after some time away, nothing has gone as I'd like it to go. I'm still finishing things, just not to a schedule anywhere near where I first plan.

Then there are days like today. I awoke to a ringing phone after a night trying to sleep off a migraine. I struggled to pull my sleep-fogged mind to awareness and answer only to have someone ask for my husband. Um, no, he works. What time is he available? After dark most likely. Also most likely a lot later than I care to have the household phone ringing. So I gave the person his cell number. And that set the mood for the day.

The phone rang at least once every hour for my dear husband pertaining to a new business venture he is pursuing. At one point I had my business phone ring the same time the house phone rang at the same time I was trying to get my noon meal. After a while, at around 2 or 3 pm, I finally decided the answering machine could do the message taking job. I actually started to get some work done. I have a format on task, a cover to finish, my own book to finalize, a media release to prepare and pages on a website to update, and those are just the biggest things. I have no lack of work to occupy me. Then, as if by fate, thunderstorms rolled in.

At first, I ignored it, but then it started to hail and the lights flickered. And my internet went blank with the red light of death showing no signal. I'm not one for risking the computer, so I quickly saved the files I was working on and shut it down, grumbling. I was shut down from working by the weather after a day of trying to answer the annoying ringing phone. So, was that a sign I needed to veg-out for a bit? I don't know. I did get the kitchen cleaned, the dog brushed out (for a cockapoo, that's no easy feat), my art lessons organized, and the next lesson started. I suppose that counts for something.

I had a fleeting thought that I should write. I am a writer, and characters have kept me company often in the times of limbo between jobs or in instances like today. But the muse just hasn't been with me and writing without the muse is like pulling teeth. I also have two books of my own I must get out this year before fans start hollering too loudly. Next year I'll worry about finishing the final book of the Disillusionment Series. I did just recently finish a video for the series, so I am thinking about it and working on it. Just not writing it at the moment - or any moment longer than an hour or two in the last three months. Ugh.

Is there a message in the mess life seems? Should I revamp priorities, or slave from dawn to midnight to get things done? I don't know. I'm grateful for the things that are going right, for the good stuff, the cardinal and bluebirds in the yard, the food on the table, the clean water from the facet - and the fact that spring will arrive at some point. And the fact that the storms that came through here did not bring any hail larger than a dime or quarter and no tornado moved through unlike just a little west of us.

Gas prices, freaky storms, earthquakes, tsunamis, and more ... and all of that feels so much like what I researched to build my fictional Rise of the Arcadians. Oh - and mass deaths of migrating animals (fish and birds), and some are still laughing at the mis-named global warming that should have been called global climate change. Would it make a difference, probably not. But it doesn't matter. Life as we know it is absolutely changing. It's just that we don't all realize it at the time...

Now, I'll stop my nighttime rambling and go hug the pillow with hopes I don't dream of ringing phones.