In a lot of cool places. I'm putting together my schedule for book signings and presentations. The schedule isn't set, but I figured I'd put a mention so you can look out for other awesome authors, and maybe The Powers That Be will jump on the chance to invite me...
Here they are:
April 19: YA Fest
http://yafest.blogspot.com/2013/04/ya-fest-2014-is-coming.html
This is being coordinated by awesome author Jennifer Murgia. Tons of authors will be signing and some are giving writing presentations. I've been to this twice and was thrilled to be asked again. You. Can't. Miss. It.
April 26: Little Flowers Teen Book Festival
https://www.facebook.com/LFWritersFest
Again, another amazing author, K.M. Walton, is one of the coordinators, along with the marvelous sisters at Little Flowers. I'm giving a writing presentation, and then doing a meet & greet/signing. *Sings 'I'm so excited....'
May 3: Hudson Children's Book Festival
http://www.hudsonchildrensbookfestival.com/
I'm still waiting to hear if my application is approved, but updates are always being made. There are sooo many authors, from PB to YA, who sign here. It's HUGE.
May 17: Hillsborough Libray Book Fair
http://www.somerset.lib.nj.us/hillsborough.htm
There will be a range of authors from picture book to young adult. Details are still being worked out, but you'll see some familiar faces (like me) and make new author friends.
June 1: Somerville Spring Street Fair
http://somervillebiz.org/event/somerville-spring-spectacular/
I'm working on getting our Kidlit Authors Club members a spot on this Main Street affair. There are vendors, food, bands, and lots of friendly folk! Stay tuned for more details.
June 28-29: NJ Society of Children's Book Writers and Illustrators Annual Conference
http://njscbwi.com/
All the details aren't posted yet, but if you've EVER wanted to write or illustrate-picture books, poetry, articles, middle grade or young adult novels, THIS is the place to be. Famous guest speakers, agents, editors, published authors signing their books and giving presentations on writing/illustrating for children. I never miss it! I may be presenting- stay tuned for details as they develop.
Sept 19-21: Chapter By Chapter Book Rave
http://www.cbcevent.com/p/updates.html
This is UNBELIEVABLE. Hosted by YA author Jennifer Armentrout and co-hosted by my friend Damaris Cardinali & TrinDee Events, there are (at present!) 39 young adult authors and as many NA (new adult) authors. It's a 3 day extravaganza with a free, open to public book signing and other events. Keep checking back for updates! Right after, I'm dying & going to YA heaven...
Sept: Warwick Children's Book Festival
http://www.warwickchildrensbookfestival.org/
I've been trying to get in for several years but... (and I'm a NY native. Huh.) An updated site for 2014 hasn't been set yet, so there isn't a specified date yet.
Get those dates blocked on your calendars, there's too much book/reading/author goodness to be missed!
Char
Tuesday, January 28, 2014
Tuesday, January 7, 2014
No Man Is An Island...
No man is an island,
Entire of itself,
Every man is a piece of the continent,
A part of the main.
John Donne, Courtesy of Poem Hunter
"There is no 'I' in team..."
Michael Jordan
On Christmas Eve, I volunteered to set up and light the luminarias around our church. The effect was breathtaking, as it is every year.
Do I deserve the credit?
No, because although I volunteered for the job, my mother and two sons helped. So, thanks guys.
But so did Andre Hughes, Adriana Calderon, and Kleber Salas. Church members? No. I don't even know these people. So how do they get to claim credit and get kudos with us?
They made the white paper bags that we poured the sand and set the candles into. Their names are proudly stamped on the bottom.
And then there are those people who made the candles, packaged the sand, transported the supplies, sold them, and church people who ordered them.
One simple job, so many people deserve credit and thanks and acknowledgment.
So too with Blonde OPS.
By now everyone knows that Nat & I wrote it together, but it was the brainchild of our editors Peter Joseph and Kat Brzozowski, and we were brought together by our agent Natalie Lakosil. They've all been acknowledged and thanked, along with family and friends.
But the creation of this book, like the luminaria display, involves so many more people. Copyeditors, packagers, artists, publicists, bloggers, readers, booksellers, truck drivers, shippers, postal workers, typesetters, and too many more to count. I wish I knew everyone who had a hand in making this book a reality just so I could personally say thank you and list them in the acknowledgments.
Some people need a deeper acknowledgment; they deserve the dedication. Here's mine and Nat's.
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When I was in seventh grade, my father, who'd worked on lunar modules that orbited and eventually landed on the moon, was out of work. As he struggled to find a job, my mom waitressed. It was a tough few years, and sometimes my parents had to borrow money from family in order to feed us. There was nothing left for trendy fashions; I had hand-me-downs or what clothes my mother made. Enter the rich kids with their overpriced designer outfits and overblown egos.
I was bullied. It made me shy, afraid to talk to people, willing to do anything to fly under the radar. But there was Mr. Cavuto, my English teacher, always with a smile, quick joke, or praise. When Jimmy (and I'm glad I can't remember his name otherwise I'd send him a letter telling him what a lowlife he was) laughed and taunted me because although my clothes were clean and pressed, they still looked poor and out of date.
Mr. Cavuto told him to shut up. And I still remember the look on Jimmy's face. Someone didn't think his jibes were funny? They were telling him to be quiet?
Mr. Cavuto didn't make a big deal of it, but Jimmy never bothered me again, and all through the time I spent there until we moved several months later, Mr. Cavuto praised my work, encouraging me to write. He even had the whole class write farewell Haikus on my last day. It still chokes me up thinking of the kindness he showed.
He deserves the dedication because I may not have continued to write or learned how to deal with criticism if it weren't for him. Thank you, Professor George Cavuto.
And then there was Mr. Grattan, high school English teacher. A sensitive, intellectual man, often bullied by snotty, 'I'm so cool but I'm really a jerk' students, he taught all the literature that seems to be the bane of students (sometimes even English-loving kids like myself): Romeo and Juliet, Silas Marner, Great Expectations, A Streetcar Named Desire. No one loves all the assigned readings, but even with the ones that I could have lived happily without having read, discussed, and written about, Mr. Grattan forced open my narrow view of what literature should be. Great literature doesn't have to be iambic pentameter, or a play, or 18th century English prose.
Literature can be anything I want it to be.
Without having been exposed to the greats and maybe not-so-greats, I might not have let my mind expand to the point where now I can say, "yeah, there's a story in that."
So thank you, Mr. George Grattan, for enlarging my vista, and I'm sorry that I didn't say it sooner while you could hear it. I'm no less grateful.
I proudly, humbly, gratefully, and lovingly dedicate Blonde OPS to you.
Char
Entire of itself,
Every man is a piece of the continent,
A part of the main.
John Donne, Courtesy of Poem Hunter
"There is no 'I' in team..."
Michael Jordan
On Christmas Eve, I volunteered to set up and light the luminarias around our church. The effect was breathtaking, as it is every year.
Do I deserve the credit?
No, because although I volunteered for the job, my mother and two sons helped. So, thanks guys.
But so did Andre Hughes, Adriana Calderon, and Kleber Salas. Church members? No. I don't even know these people. So how do they get to claim credit and get kudos with us?
They made the white paper bags that we poured the sand and set the candles into. Their names are proudly stamped on the bottom.
And then there are those people who made the candles, packaged the sand, transported the supplies, sold them, and church people who ordered them.
One simple job, so many people deserve credit and thanks and acknowledgment.
So too with Blonde OPS.
By now everyone knows that Nat & I wrote it together, but it was the brainchild of our editors Peter Joseph and Kat Brzozowski, and we were brought together by our agent Natalie Lakosil. They've all been acknowledged and thanked, along with family and friends.
But the creation of this book, like the luminaria display, involves so many more people. Copyeditors, packagers, artists, publicists, bloggers, readers, booksellers, truck drivers, shippers, postal workers, typesetters, and too many more to count. I wish I knew everyone who had a hand in making this book a reality just so I could personally say thank you and list them in the acknowledgments.
Some people need a deeper acknowledgment; they deserve the dedication. Here's mine and Nat's.
When I was in seventh grade, my father, who'd worked on lunar modules that orbited and eventually landed on the moon, was out of work. As he struggled to find a job, my mom waitressed. It was a tough few years, and sometimes my parents had to borrow money from family in order to feed us. There was nothing left for trendy fashions; I had hand-me-downs or what clothes my mother made. Enter the rich kids with their overpriced designer outfits and overblown egos.
I was bullied. It made me shy, afraid to talk to people, willing to do anything to fly under the radar. But there was Mr. Cavuto, my English teacher, always with a smile, quick joke, or praise. When Jimmy (and I'm glad I can't remember his name otherwise I'd send him a letter telling him what a lowlife he was) laughed and taunted me because although my clothes were clean and pressed, they still looked poor and out of date.
Mr. Cavuto told him to shut up. And I still remember the look on Jimmy's face. Someone didn't think his jibes were funny? They were telling him to be quiet?
Mr. Cavuto didn't make a big deal of it, but Jimmy never bothered me again, and all through the time I spent there until we moved several months later, Mr. Cavuto praised my work, encouraging me to write. He even had the whole class write farewell Haikus on my last day. It still chokes me up thinking of the kindness he showed.
He deserves the dedication because I may not have continued to write or learned how to deal with criticism if it weren't for him. Thank you, Professor George Cavuto.
And then there was Mr. Grattan, high school English teacher. A sensitive, intellectual man, often bullied by snotty, 'I'm so cool but I'm really a jerk' students, he taught all the literature that seems to be the bane of students (sometimes even English-loving kids like myself): Romeo and Juliet, Silas Marner, Great Expectations, A Streetcar Named Desire. No one loves all the assigned readings, but even with the ones that I could have lived happily without having read, discussed, and written about, Mr. Grattan forced open my narrow view of what literature should be. Great literature doesn't have to be iambic pentameter, or a play, or 18th century English prose.
Literature can be anything I want it to be.
Without having been exposed to the greats and maybe not-so-greats, I might not have let my mind expand to the point where now I can say, "yeah, there's a story in that."
So thank you, Mr. George Grattan, for enlarging my vista, and I'm sorry that I didn't say it sooner while you could hear it. I'm no less grateful.
I proudly, humbly, gratefully, and lovingly dedicate Blonde OPS to you.
Char
Tuesday, December 31, 2013
Cleaning Out The Old Year
The old year is like a manuscript that I've been working on. There are some bright spots, some frustrating ones, a number of disappointments, a lot of work left undone, moments of sheer wonder, and potential for so much more.
Unlike the manuscript, the old year can't be changed, but I can take lessons learned from both:
1. Nothing is all bad, there is always some good. Even if it's only a moment or a sentence, I will find something awe inspiring.
2. Likewise, nothing is perfect; there is always room for improvement. I just have to be open to making changes.
3. There will always be a gem in the rock pile and I will find it if I search hard enough.
4. Sometimes I have to let go of something--whether it's words, pages, the whole manuscript--or people, ideas, goals--that can't be saved. Moving on, even if a project held promise, a relationship was long, or goal was almost reached, can be the right, if painful, path.
5. I need to stop: wasting time on regrets, being unwilling to adapt, refusing to accept when something isn't working, and allowing others to steer the course of my life.
I wish you all the best of health, the most happiness, and as much success as you can handle.
Char
Tuesday, December 17, 2013
A Very Hades Christmas!
As I was putting the last ornament on the tree, I suddenly knew you-know-who was there. I didn't turn around but fussed over the ornaments, making sure they were perfectly spaced.
"Hades, why are you here at my house?" Luckily my parents were out Christmas shopping. It would be hard to explain Hades' presence.
"Sharisse, mon cherie," came that voice that suggested the whisper of silk sliding off skin (he wished!). "I merely wanted to wish you a Merry Christmas and give you a gift of my esteem."
Even though I knew I shouldn't, I turned around to face him. While I was desperately in love with Caz, Hades' nephew, something about this dark god gave me an illicit thrill. His wavy dark hair, his mysterious brown eyes--and that sleek, taut body that invited Bon Apetite! if I listened--were always a temptation. He was kind of like an exquisite, custom-made-to-order pair of shoes from Stuart Weitzman; the fit would be perfect, there would be none exactly like it--and I couldn't ever afford to give into the desire.
But that still didn't stop me from sneaking a peek.
He lounged in the doorway in his favorite pose, one shoulder against the frame, arms and legs crossed, his eyes glittering--and his luscious mouth quirked in a slightly sexy, mostly arrogant grin. Irresistible.
The Beast.
Pull yourself together and focus...
"Huh. Your gifts are too expensive to accept, Hades. Last one almost cost me body and soul. The Trojan Horse was a better deal." I started gathering the empty ornament boxes. He snapped his fingers and everything was tidy--he'd even cleaned the spot on the rug from who knew what spilled--and I think he did the windows, too.
It was hard not to love a man like that.
But I didn't.
And he was no man. He was Hades, Lord of the Underworld, Greek god.
And not to be trusted.
"Thank you," I said politely even if a bit cool.
He frowned. "I don't like your attention elsewhere when you're in my presence."
That's my Hades: it's all about him.
He waved a careless hand and two cups of frothy hot chocolate appeared, with extra marshmallows, the square-cut, homemade kind I looooove so much.
He knew how to seduce a girl, and sometimes, you just can't refuse no matter how hard you try. I took the cup and lifted it in wary thanks. He held up his left hand.
"I swear there's nothing devious in the drink or my motives."
Were oaths sworn with left hands binding?
"Want to sit?" I asked gesturing toward our couch.
He graciously inclined his head, said "Thank you," and then practically sat in my lap. I had to scooch over a bit. "Unless..." and his eyes sparkled, "You'd like to have lunch in Gstaad? The slopes are perfection. I checked before popping in here."
"How thoughtful," I murmured before sipping my confectionery addiction. Mmmm. Dark, not milk chocolate. Hades knew me well.
And yet, he didn't give up trying to seduce me even though I always refused. I'd think it was just a game he wanted to win (the girl who plays hard to get) but he was so intense--and relentless.
"Thanks, but no,"I said. "What would Caz think? He's already rescued me once from your clutches. Throwing myself into your company might make him think I was playing one against the other." I put the cup down, licking the marshmallow off my top lip.
His eyes followed.
It was time to find out what he really wanted, refuse, and send him on his merry way to torment someone else. Last thing I needed was for Caz or Persephone to drop in too. That could be awkward.
"Let's be honest for a change, Hades. Just tell me what you want. No games." His cup, along with mine, disintegrated into thin air and he leaned closer. I could barely breathe. Even so, I wasn't going to back away.Once you gave in to him, he owned you: figuratively, literally, physically--and eternally.
"Fine." His gaze held that intensity I so feared. "I want you."
Yeah, I know that. NOT happening.
I started to open my mouth to give the sweetest kiss my gluteous that I could when he stopped me.
"I'll give you ANYTHING. You want the Hope diamond? It becomes the Sharisse Johnson diamond. You want immortality? You won't age even a second. Name it."
Now most people might be tempted. Even considering I was a shopoholic (with limited funds), and yes, I liked pretty, pretty things, I didn't want anything. I had my parents, I had Caz, I had friends, and I was in the school of my choice, the Fashion Institute of Technology. No, there was nothing more I needed.
But...
"Anything?"
He slapped his hand over his heart and his fervent look told me he truly wanted the, er, pleasure of my company. "ANYTHING." His voice was almost hoarse.
If there was no limit... should I refuse? What would Caz think? Would Persephone find out? Even if she did, I knew that I'd be under Hades' protection; he was a gentleman that way at least.
I deliberated. One special gift. Only I could ask for it and get it.
I was going to do it. Sometimes, sacrifices had to be made.
Straightening my shoulders and taking a deep breath, I said "Okay."
His eyes widened and I swear I heard his indrawn breath. "Tell me what you want."
"No more war. Ever. Eternal peace on Earth."
He flushed and jumped up, scowling fiercely at me. "You can't ask that! It has to be for you!"
Standing abruptly with fists on my hips, I glared right back at him. "You said 'anything.' And it's what I want. I have friends and a cousin who are serving in the military. I know people who have lost family due to wars. Children die when nations go to war. No more war. Ever. That's what I want."
Hades ran his fingers through his beautiful mane, more agitated than I have ever seen him. "Can't you ask for something material? Or to be forever youthful? That's what most people ask for."
I eyed him coldly. "I'm not most people. That's why you're so obsessed with me. And besides, it's Christmas. Time to think about and help others." I know some people considered me shallow because I liked to have my nails done, look perfect, and be popular, but I had a conscience and wanted to do good.
He shook his head sadly. "I can't do that. There's a thing called free will. I can't interfere with it. I believe it's the basis of your own faith. Humanity has to decide for itself, like you had to agree to our initial contract."
I felt deflated. Here I was going to put myself on the altar of Hades' lust for a noble cause, and I was turned away.
At least I tried.
"There's nothing else I want, Hades," I said softly, knowing that if he couldn't give me world peace, then he couldn't abolish disease, pain, suffering, and other ills that plagued us insignificant mortals.
With sad, soulful eyes, he whispered, "Not even a new kitty?"
I laughed. True to form, Hades didn't give up. "Tell you what," and I grabbed his hand so we stood under the mistletoe. "Just one, promise?"
Back came his arrogant smile. "Just one."
I narrowed my eyes. "And no whisking me off anywhere, no three hundred year kiss, no telling Caz, no trouble for me, got it? Or I'll tell Persephone." With a resigned sigh, he nodded. Wrapping my arms around his neck, I pulled him in for a very seductive, memorable kiss. When I moved back, he was breathing hard. He nodded, actually speechless.
I heard the key in the door--my parents were home!
But he was gone.
My cat, Chanel, came running into the room, a new pretty silver bell on her collar and a note. I pulled the note off. It read:
My Darling Sharisse,
I'm sorry I couldn't give you the gift you wanted, although I'm not surprised you asked for it. And I know you won't accept anything from me, even if I promise 'no strings' but I can give you this-
Look out your window.
Yours eternally,
Hades
I moved over to the window; snow fell softly, already a thin sheeting on the grass, trees, street and rooftops. He was giving me a white Christmas.
"Thank you," I whispered.
"The pleasure was all mine," he whispered back.
And so I wish you all a very Merry Christmas, a healthy and happy 2014, and a dream come true. To one lucky random person, I'm giving away an audio copy of Sirenz. Just put your name in the comments, tell your friends, family, etc. I will notify the winner before the New Year (you have plenty of time, but why wait? You might forget...) One entry per person.
Char
"Hades, why are you here at my house?" Luckily my parents were out Christmas shopping. It would be hard to explain Hades' presence.
"Sharisse, mon cherie," came that voice that suggested the whisper of silk sliding off skin (he wished!). "I merely wanted to wish you a Merry Christmas and give you a gift of my esteem."
Even though I knew I shouldn't, I turned around to face him. While I was desperately in love with Caz, Hades' nephew, something about this dark god gave me an illicit thrill. His wavy dark hair, his mysterious brown eyes--and that sleek, taut body that invited Bon Apetite! if I listened--were always a temptation. He was kind of like an exquisite, custom-made-to-order pair of shoes from Stuart Weitzman; the fit would be perfect, there would be none exactly like it--and I couldn't ever afford to give into the desire.
But that still didn't stop me from sneaking a peek.
He lounged in the doorway in his favorite pose, one shoulder against the frame, arms and legs crossed, his eyes glittering--and his luscious mouth quirked in a slightly sexy, mostly arrogant grin. Irresistible.
The Beast.
Pull yourself together and focus...
"Huh. Your gifts are too expensive to accept, Hades. Last one almost cost me body and soul. The Trojan Horse was a better deal." I started gathering the empty ornament boxes. He snapped his fingers and everything was tidy--he'd even cleaned the spot on the rug from who knew what spilled--and I think he did the windows, too.
It was hard not to love a man like that.
But I didn't.
And he was no man. He was Hades, Lord of the Underworld, Greek god.
And not to be trusted.
"Thank you," I said politely even if a bit cool.
He frowned. "I don't like your attention elsewhere when you're in my presence."
That's my Hades: it's all about him.
He waved a careless hand and two cups of frothy hot chocolate appeared, with extra marshmallows, the square-cut, homemade kind I looooove so much.
He knew how to seduce a girl, and sometimes, you just can't refuse no matter how hard you try. I took the cup and lifted it in wary thanks. He held up his left hand.
"I swear there's nothing devious in the drink or my motives."
Were oaths sworn with left hands binding?
"Want to sit?" I asked gesturing toward our couch.
He graciously inclined his head, said "Thank you," and then practically sat in my lap. I had to scooch over a bit. "Unless..." and his eyes sparkled, "You'd like to have lunch in Gstaad? The slopes are perfection. I checked before popping in here."
"How thoughtful," I murmured before sipping my confectionery addiction. Mmmm. Dark, not milk chocolate. Hades knew me well.
And yet, he didn't give up trying to seduce me even though I always refused. I'd think it was just a game he wanted to win (the girl who plays hard to get) but he was so intense--and relentless.
"Thanks, but no,"I said. "What would Caz think? He's already rescued me once from your clutches. Throwing myself into your company might make him think I was playing one against the other." I put the cup down, licking the marshmallow off my top lip.
His eyes followed.
It was time to find out what he really wanted, refuse, and send him on his merry way to torment someone else. Last thing I needed was for Caz or Persephone to drop in too. That could be awkward.
"Let's be honest for a change, Hades. Just tell me what you want. No games." His cup, along with mine, disintegrated into thin air and he leaned closer. I could barely breathe. Even so, I wasn't going to back away.Once you gave in to him, he owned you: figuratively, literally, physically--and eternally.
"Fine." His gaze held that intensity I so feared. "I want you."
Yeah, I know that. NOT happening.
I started to open my mouth to give the sweetest kiss my gluteous that I could when he stopped me.
"I'll give you ANYTHING. You want the Hope diamond? It becomes the Sharisse Johnson diamond. You want immortality? You won't age even a second. Name it."
Now most people might be tempted. Even considering I was a shopoholic (with limited funds), and yes, I liked pretty, pretty things, I didn't want anything. I had my parents, I had Caz, I had friends, and I was in the school of my choice, the Fashion Institute of Technology. No, there was nothing more I needed.
But...
"Anything?"
He slapped his hand over his heart and his fervent look told me he truly wanted the, er, pleasure of my company. "ANYTHING." His voice was almost hoarse.
If there was no limit... should I refuse? What would Caz think? Would Persephone find out? Even if she did, I knew that I'd be under Hades' protection; he was a gentleman that way at least.
I deliberated. One special gift. Only I could ask for it and get it.
I was going to do it. Sometimes, sacrifices had to be made.
Straightening my shoulders and taking a deep breath, I said "Okay."
His eyes widened and I swear I heard his indrawn breath. "Tell me what you want."
"No more war. Ever. Eternal peace on Earth."
He flushed and jumped up, scowling fiercely at me. "You can't ask that! It has to be for you!"
Standing abruptly with fists on my hips, I glared right back at him. "You said 'anything.' And it's what I want. I have friends and a cousin who are serving in the military. I know people who have lost family due to wars. Children die when nations go to war. No more war. Ever. That's what I want."
Hades ran his fingers through his beautiful mane, more agitated than I have ever seen him. "Can't you ask for something material? Or to be forever youthful? That's what most people ask for."
I eyed him coldly. "I'm not most people. That's why you're so obsessed with me. And besides, it's Christmas. Time to think about and help others." I know some people considered me shallow because I liked to have my nails done, look perfect, and be popular, but I had a conscience and wanted to do good.
He shook his head sadly. "I can't do that. There's a thing called free will. I can't interfere with it. I believe it's the basis of your own faith. Humanity has to decide for itself, like you had to agree to our initial contract."
I felt deflated. Here I was going to put myself on the altar of Hades' lust for a noble cause, and I was turned away.
At least I tried.
"There's nothing else I want, Hades," I said softly, knowing that if he couldn't give me world peace, then he couldn't abolish disease, pain, suffering, and other ills that plagued us insignificant mortals.
With sad, soulful eyes, he whispered, "Not even a new kitty?"
I laughed. True to form, Hades didn't give up. "Tell you what," and I grabbed his hand so we stood under the mistletoe. "Just one, promise?"
Back came his arrogant smile. "Just one."
I narrowed my eyes. "And no whisking me off anywhere, no three hundred year kiss, no telling Caz, no trouble for me, got it? Or I'll tell Persephone." With a resigned sigh, he nodded. Wrapping my arms around his neck, I pulled him in for a very seductive, memorable kiss. When I moved back, he was breathing hard. He nodded, actually speechless.
I heard the key in the door--my parents were home!
But he was gone.
My cat, Chanel, came running into the room, a new pretty silver bell on her collar and a note. I pulled the note off. It read:
My Darling Sharisse,
I'm sorry I couldn't give you the gift you wanted, although I'm not surprised you asked for it. And I know you won't accept anything from me, even if I promise 'no strings' but I can give you this-
Look out your window.
Yours eternally,
Hades
I moved over to the window; snow fell softly, already a thin sheeting on the grass, trees, street and rooftops. He was giving me a white Christmas.
"Thank you," I whispered.
"The pleasure was all mine," he whispered back.
And so I wish you all a very Merry Christmas, a healthy and happy 2014, and a dream come true. To one lucky random person, I'm giving away an audio copy of Sirenz. Just put your name in the comments, tell your friends, family, etc. I will notify the winner before the New Year (you have plenty of time, but why wait? You might forget...) One entry per person.
Char
Wednesday, December 11, 2013
Do You Know This Crazy Woman?
This is what I felt like in November. I was doing NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month- 1 novel, 1,667 words a day for 30 days), driving to book signings for Sirenz and doing other PR stuff for Blonde Ops, getting a bathroom renovation done, doing Thanksgiving prep & day, handling kids & school stuff, family issues, and trying to stick to my swimming exercise routine. You get the picture.
It's now December and my house and tree are decorated, most of my shopping/wrapping is done, no more signings, the galleys for Blonde Ops have gotten (I hope) the last proofing, and while still busy, life isn't frantic. I'm going to take some time to enjoy the snow, the holiday season, and some personal time.
(And yes, I did finish NaNo with 50,103 words!)
So, I'm off to a well deserved rest and relax- that only the craziness of Christmas brings.
Bring it on. :)
Char
Monday, December 2, 2013
Here's That "In" You Need to Get Published...
So don't just sit there!
My good friend, Tanya Contois, is an editor at Hallowed Ink Press. And she's looking for writers, manuscripts, graphics...
This is your sign to send your work out (we can't come to your house to motivate you, sorry).
Here's the info you need: (READ IT- don't send silly questions to me or Tanya when the info is below. And if you're truly serious about submitting, you'll be professional and observe the rules of polite society. If I have to tell you what they are, you're not ready.)
Hallowed Ink Press is accepting queries for all YA and New Adult fiction.
Anthology Guidelines
My good friend, Tanya Contois, is an editor at Hallowed Ink Press. And she's looking for writers, manuscripts, graphics...
This is your sign to send your work out (we can't come to your house to motivate you, sorry).
Here's the info you need: (READ IT- don't send silly questions to me or Tanya when the info is below. And if you're truly serious about submitting, you'll be professional and observe the rules of polite society. If I have to tell you what they are, you're not ready.)
Hallowed Ink Press is accepting queries for all YA and New Adult fiction.
We are currently open to all solicited and unsolicited submissions.
What we accept: All Young Adult and New Adult categories.
This includes; series fiction, stand-alone novels, novellas, poetry, short stories and graphic novels.
This includes; series fiction, stand-alone novels, novellas, poetry, short stories and graphic novels.
*We do take on the occasional pet project outside of these genres, but only if the writing is truly exceptional.
Currently Hallowed Ink Press is most interested in:
- Unique concepts that break through the current stereotypes in the market.
- Quality writing with strong character arcs and ‘fresh’ voices.
- Unique concepts that break through the current stereotypes in the market.
- Quality writing with strong character arcs and ‘fresh’ voices.
Be assured we will check all submissions, yet we are very selective. We try our very best to respond to every individual query; however, if you have not heard back from us within four weeks of your original submission, please understand that although we thank you for the chance to read your ideas, we have decided against your material.
Our goal is to build long-standing relationships with our readers and authors, and we are open to e-mails with any questions, comments, or suggestions you may have. Submissions@HallowedInkPress.com
Manuscript guidelines:
Please read guidelines below before submitting your work. (All information will be kept confidential)
YA & New Adult Fiction:
Your query should include the working title, word count, your name, mailing address and phone number. (If pen name is being used, please include that information). We would like to see 1-3 paragraphs regarding your story and a one paragraph biography. Please do not attach a document with your initial query.
If chapters are requested (attachments allowed):
Preferred File Type: .doc, .docx or .rtf
Font Options: Times New Roman or Arial 12pt.
Formatting: .5 indents to first lines, no tab replacements.
Synopsis: 1 page
Subject Line: “Query: Title/Author Name”
Preferred File Type: .doc, .docx or .rtf
Font Options: Times New Roman or Arial 12pt.
Formatting: .5 indents to first lines, no tab replacements.
Synopsis: 1 page
Subject Line: “Query: Title/Author Name”
Anthology Guidelines
(attachments allowed): Anthology open calls will be posted here.
Font Options: Times New Roman 12pt.
Formatting: .5 indents to first lines, no tab replacements.
Subject Line: “____ Anthology: Author Name”
Length: We ask that no short stories exceed 15k words.
Font Options: Times New Roman 12pt.
Formatting: .5 indents to first lines, no tab replacements.
Subject Line: “____ Anthology: Author Name”
Length: We ask that no short stories exceed 15k words.
Novella Guidelines:
We ask that all novellas either be stand-alone or connected to a series signed with us. Please note, we MAY choose to convert novellas to interactive iBooks as well as normal digital releases. We ask that all novellas be between 5k-35k words.
Font Options: Times New Roman or Arial 12pt.
Formatting: .5 indents to first lines, no tab replacements.
Subject Line: “Novella Query: Title/Author Name” and queries can be sent to submissions@hallowedinkpress.com.
Font Options: Times New Roman or Arial 12pt.
Formatting: .5 indents to first lines, no tab replacements.
Subject Line: “Novella Query: Title/Author Name” and queries can be sent to submissions@hallowedinkpress.com.
Tuesday, November 5, 2013
I'm Signing Her Death Warrant
If you know me well enough, you know Mariah.
We've come to a parting of the ways, and I think it's going to kill her. And her 10W40 oil will be on my hands.
Mariah is my gal pal--my 2002 Chevrolet Impala. She's darkly alluring in her midnight blue coat. She's feisty with her V-6 engine. She's sexy with her aluminum rims and rear spoiler. She's got a good handle in any situation with her traction control, power steering and ABS brakes.
We've been together from the beginning; she was made especially for me, delivered at the local dealer. When I had to fly to Florida for my father's funeral, I took her keys so no one (read: husband) could drive her while I was away.
And I've sold her.
(*eyes moisten, throat closes a little bit.)
She's a long car; it's a tight squeeze to fit her into her spot in the garage (especially with that shelf of everyone's junk taking up precious space). But on the highway, her length made the road smoother and she could glide beautifully even with her weight. Only that was part of the problem--parallel parking her when I went to book signings was a nightmare. In a parking lot, no problem, but on the street (especially since I suck at parallel parking to begin with), I'd have to drive farther down the street for an easier spot and lug my swag and stuff to the bookstore.
She's pretty good on gas for her size, but when you're doing two, three, events in a week, and half of them are out of state, she gets thirsty a lot sooner.
She's roomy--but two out of three children are grown and away at school. They rarely drive anywhere with me.
Sure, we've been in some scraps; a rude b*tch in the grocery store parking lot who was busy yakking on her cell just pushed her empty cart and it headed right for Mariah's back end.
I gave that lady what for. And then parked the cart behind her pretentious SUV.
I was chased down route 287 by two whackos. But with her V-6 (and the lack of helpful police anywhere) she had no problems doing 110 mph. Dusted those creeps.
So it's killing me to sell her. She won't understand, especially when her new owner is supposed to be an 86-year-old man. Can he see well enough? Are his reflexes quicker than the jerks on the road? Will he garage her and regularly maintain her like she's used to? I fear that she will end up in the scrap or wrecking yard. But maybe his much younger wife will drive Mariah until it's time for some young man to buy her on the cheap and fixes her up again, as a labor of love.
Have you ever been this attached to an inanimate object? I think most characters--in real life or in novels (YA, NA, or adult) don't have these kinds of attachments anymore. Maybe it's because I grew up in a racing family (both parents raced at the local speedway), my grandmother would accompany my dad and my Uncle Ed when they raced, my brother owned a race car and worked for NASCAR, and to channel my Marisa Tomei from "My Cousin Vinny", my grandfather was a mechanic, my father was a mechanic...and now my son will be a mechanic... it's just in the family bloodline to love our cars. It's the great dream of the '50s--to own a cool car. Characters today don't seem to have these sentiments.
Now you can argue that it's too materialistic, it's shallow. I'm thinking that we are a throw-away-and-buy-new society, where the value of ownership lasts only until the next shiny thing, and no one takes care of their property anymore.
You can say I'm anal; I take care of my house the same way; if the kids don't clean their rooms, I do (and sometimes with a big black garbage bag). I like to repaint rooms every five years, even if it's the same color. My windows get washed a minimum of twice a year, inside and out. I take care of everything so that it will last, and always look good. That could all stem from growing up in tough times; after my father no longer worked in the space program, it was hard for him to find another long term career and he worked numerous jobs to support the family. I know what it's like to have second hand toys and clothes (and they looked it).
So it's hard for me to let her go. Although he said it was a done deal, the buyer hasn't called to make the arrangements for me to drop her off and get paid. Maybe he won't show. Then I could find her the home she deserves.
.JPG)
And why is her name Mariah? Not after a popstar; because like the old song goes, "They call the wind Mariah." And she rides like the wind.
Char
We've come to a parting of the ways, and I think it's going to kill her. And her 10W40 oil will be on my hands.
Mariah is my gal pal--my 2002 Chevrolet Impala. She's darkly alluring in her midnight blue coat. She's feisty with her V-6 engine. She's sexy with her aluminum rims and rear spoiler. She's got a good handle in any situation with her traction control, power steering and ABS brakes.
We've been together from the beginning; she was made especially for me, delivered at the local dealer. When I had to fly to Florida for my father's funeral, I took her keys so no one (read: husband) could drive her while I was away.
And I've sold her.
(*eyes moisten, throat closes a little bit.)
She's a long car; it's a tight squeeze to fit her into her spot in the garage (especially with that shelf of everyone's junk taking up precious space). But on the highway, her length made the road smoother and she could glide beautifully even with her weight. Only that was part of the problem--parallel parking her when I went to book signings was a nightmare. In a parking lot, no problem, but on the street (especially since I suck at parallel parking to begin with), I'd have to drive farther down the street for an easier spot and lug my swag and stuff to the bookstore.
She's pretty good on gas for her size, but when you're doing two, three, events in a week, and half of them are out of state, she gets thirsty a lot sooner.
She's roomy--but two out of three children are grown and away at school. They rarely drive anywhere with me.
Sure, we've been in some scraps; a rude b*tch in the grocery store parking lot who was busy yakking on her cell just pushed her empty cart and it headed right for Mariah's back end.
I gave that lady what for. And then parked the cart behind her pretentious SUV.
I was chased down route 287 by two whackos. But with her V-6 (and the lack of helpful police anywhere) she had no problems doing 110 mph. Dusted those creeps.
So it's killing me to sell her. She won't understand, especially when her new owner is supposed to be an 86-year-old man. Can he see well enough? Are his reflexes quicker than the jerks on the road? Will he garage her and regularly maintain her like she's used to? I fear that she will end up in the scrap or wrecking yard. But maybe his much younger wife will drive Mariah until it's time for some young man to buy her on the cheap and fixes her up again, as a labor of love.
Have you ever been this attached to an inanimate object? I think most characters--in real life or in novels (YA, NA, or adult) don't have these kinds of attachments anymore. Maybe it's because I grew up in a racing family (both parents raced at the local speedway), my grandmother would accompany my dad and my Uncle Ed when they raced, my brother owned a race car and worked for NASCAR, and to channel my Marisa Tomei from "My Cousin Vinny", my grandfather was a mechanic, my father was a mechanic...and now my son will be a mechanic... it's just in the family bloodline to love our cars. It's the great dream of the '50s--to own a cool car. Characters today don't seem to have these sentiments.
Now you can argue that it's too materialistic, it's shallow. I'm thinking that we are a throw-away-and-buy-new society, where the value of ownership lasts only until the next shiny thing, and no one takes care of their property anymore.
You can say I'm anal; I take care of my house the same way; if the kids don't clean their rooms, I do (and sometimes with a big black garbage bag). I like to repaint rooms every five years, even if it's the same color. My windows get washed a minimum of twice a year, inside and out. I take care of everything so that it will last, and always look good. That could all stem from growing up in tough times; after my father no longer worked in the space program, it was hard for him to find another long term career and he worked numerous jobs to support the family. I know what it's like to have second hand toys and clothes (and they looked it).
So it's hard for me to let her go. Although he said it was a done deal, the buyer hasn't called to make the arrangements for me to drop her off and get paid. Maybe he won't show. Then I could find her the home she deserves.
.JPG)
And why is her name Mariah? Not after a popstar; because like the old song goes, "They call the wind Mariah." And she rides like the wind.
Char
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