Ah, therein lies a story.

I was between jobs when I went on an archaeological excavation in Belmont, New Hampshire. I’ve always liked mythology and folklore and had gravitated to Irish mythology. I decided to go to the Harvard Extension School and get a Master of Liberal Arts in Anthropology and Archaeology. While there I took a course in Old Irish, which was spoken in Ireland between A. D. 700 and 900. I got a chance to go on a dig in Ireland and was hooked.

​I decided to go to National University of Ireland in Galway. I earned a Master of Literature in Archaeology. Fun fact: I thought of the initial idea for Price of Vengeance walking back to my apartment toward the end of my stay. I didn’t know whether it should be science fiction or fantasy at the time.

I decided to get my PhD. at the State University of New York at Buffalo. The summer before I started, I began the process of outlining Price of Vengeance. Once I started, I had little time for fiction writing. After I graduated in 2010, I found few opportunities for work. I picked up the outline and started to flesh it out. Over time, I slowly built up a career as an adjunct.

My archaeology is just under the surface of my writing. Underlying my world building are ancient civilizations that disappeared before the current spacefaring species arose, including humanity.

My two major inspirations were the late Andre Norton’s Forerunner series and the Halo video games.

Andre Norton’s science fiction often featured ESP powers.

​Halo inspired the military end of things. I also took inspiration from the first F.E.A.R. video game. The protagonist had an ability similar to stepping out of time. People have compared the Dreamscape Warriors series to Star Wars. If it did provide inspiration, then it was subconscious.

Family is important to me. My parents have always supported me. Mom helped with a great deal of editing. My brother and sister-in-law did some beta reading. Even my younger niece caught a mistake or two. In one book, my father, a military historian, also provided some advice.

​My father died August 17, 2021, after battling age related illnesses. Mother and I had to take care of him for nine months as his mobility deteriorated. Age has caught up to Mother as well. I live at home so I can take care of her. My brother spots me if I have to teach on a really bad day.

That’s a hard one. There is a bit of myself in each character, which is true for any author.

If I may be indulged in being allowed two, it would be Liam and Kergan. This protagonist/antagonist pairing is interesting because they’ve both been shaped by similar events. Liam lost his birth parents and foster parents, ultimately on a traitor’s orders. Kergan lost his parents, siblings, and friends when alliance warships launched an incendiary bombardment on his home planet. He watched friends and family burn to death. They are both men with wounded souls. Liam quickly turned from the path of vengeance. For Kergan, the pain of loss inspires him to allow vengeance to drive him.

I’m also releasing Legacy of Valor this year as well. After reading Price of Vengeance and Promise of Mercy. Mom said, “Kurt, there is a story in between these two.” Legacy of Valor has become the second book in the series. Liam is forced into the role of division commander when the higher ranks are taken out be a hidden explosive. He’s lost his orbital support, and Kergan’s forces out number his six-to-one.

The next two books are Gift of Peace (that title may change) and Mark of Integrity. The first has Liam’s son Aidan trying to get information Kergan’s after to Finnian Military Intelligence. The second is a prequel, taking place 600 years before the events of Price of Vengeance.

Another complicated one. If you are talking about Star Trek before the J. J. Abrams film and Star Wars before Disney, it’s a hard choice. I liked both equally. I grew up on the Original Series. The Next Generation and DS 9 were intriguing. I never really got invested in Voyager and Enterprise.

Star Wars Legends continuity, as it is now called, was always intriguing, especially the expanded universe. I used to play Jedi Academy all the time. When both “updated” they lost the magic of both.

I did draw technical inspiration from Star Trek. Star Wars lightsaber combat inspired me to research actually fencing moves for plasma blade combat.

If you're anything like me, you're starting 2024 with some pretty big writing goals in mind. You're ready and eager to get started and I applaud you! To get you started (and to keep you going!) below are three of my favorite books on the art and business of writing. And as always, comment below with recommendations of your own!

Okay, so full disclosure: I haven't actually read many of King's novels. But this book is one of the best books I've ever read on the art and practicality of writing.  

King starts with his personal success/failure/success story in the first section, giving you a really good idea of how unglamorous the life of one of the world's most successful novelists can be.  It's absolutely fascinating and gives you a real sense of where his much-acclaimed realism comes from. 

For me, though, the real gems are in the second section, where King outlines his best tips and tricks to starting, surviving, and thriving as a writer. It's helpful, frank, and surprisingly uplifting. If you don't have this book, seriously, you need it!

Susan Shapiro is a novelist, writer, and professor whose highly success writing classes spawned two books, The Byline Bible and The Book Bible. In these two books, she distills her years of experience as a magazine contributor and an author and offers practical and oft-times hilarious insights into the industries.

I picked The Byline Bible over The Book Bible for this review only because this book stunned me: not only does she offer clear, easy to follow advice on how to compose, package, and sell your magazine piece, she's had astonishing success with her method. The book is packed with examples of published pieces from her students, who, by now, number in the thousands. (She offers classes on Zoom now - I highly recommend!) If you're looking for some hands-on advice on what to do to get your words out there, look no further: The Byline Bible is your best bet.

This book is not a "how-to" book. It's a "how-to-be" book. Look, writing is awesome, the best thing ever, but living in your own head is fraught with peril as everyone knows. It's easy enough to discourage yourself, let alone hearing "helpful" advice from people who love to tell you how impossible this field is.

Kenower's book walks through each of your fears and doubts about your ability as a writer and explains how to manage and thrive despite them - sometimes, even using them as fuel for your art. From finding time to write to learning how and when to take critiques, Kenower is knowing, kind, and encouraging. My advice? Don't read this book all in one setting. Take it a chapter at a time on your worst days and let Kenower encourage you to reach for the stars.

Normally on the second Monday of the month, I try to have a book review ready. But this month, I didn't have any Christmas books ready to review (and it seemed like the wrong time of year to review The Exorcist, which I recently finished), so in the absence of a book review, I thought it'd be fun to give you a sneak peek at my December writing challenge: a Hallmark movie-style book featuring Christmas, romance, small towns, and shenanigans - in short, all the sugary good stuff!

Behold, chapter one!  I hope you enjoy - let me know your thoughts!

(Note: this is a work in progress, and has not been professionally edited yet. I try to be pretty thorough in my edits, but apologize for any spelling or grammatical errors.)

“Are you sure we don't need another Christmas tree?”

Maggie Roberts walked briskly down the bustling streets, expertly avoiding fellow pedestrians while managing to hold a tray with four different lattes, her over-sized messenger bag on one shoulder, a gaily beribboned-wreath under the other arm, and her cell phone pressed against her ear. She was four blocks from her office and ten minutes late, but as she was the boss, timeliness wasn't an issue. What was an issue was trying to talk into a cell phone while streets fairly screamed with holiday shoppers and Thursday morning traffic.

Perhaps this wasn't the best place to have this conversation. But when you feel as strongly as Maggie did about Christmas trees, you didn't always wait for a better time.

Her question was met with a grunt.

“We have eight already, Maggie,” came Joan Elizondo's dry response. “Even if we could fit more, which I don't see how we could, why would we need another?”

“Because-" Maggie came to a street and stopped just in time to avoid the traffic signal change. “Because it's only eight and there are nine letters in the word Christmas and I think…”

The ‘Don't Walk’ sign changed and pedestrian traffic surged forth. She was pulled along in the wake, jostled left right and center as seasoned city-dwellers mingled with – or tripped over - star-struck tourists, awed by the lights, the towering buildings, the glittering store windows offering everything from delicate French pastries and sturdy German-made wooden toys to the latest American fashions and Asian technology. Underfoot, the pavement was wet and lumps of tired, melting, dirty snow lined the streets. But overhead, lights and decorations filled the sky between the buildings. When night fell, as it would early this time of year, the whole city would light up into a twinkling magical space where, for a moment, the rat race would be forgotten and childhood memories revived.

But that would happen later. That gray and chilly Thursday morning, all Maggie wanted to do was get into her office without spilling her lattes on the outfit that was supposed to take her through the working day into the dinner meeting with a potential client that evening. The coat – long, red, and wool with a princess waistline – wasn't new and was now a little mud-spattered around the hem line. But it was her favorite and, more to the point, went perfectly with her shiny black boots and the brand-new, pine-green sweater dress she'd found only yesterday. It set off her curly blonde hair and green eyes perfectly and when she tried it on that morning, she knew exactly what her boyfriend Felix would say when he saw her in it: “Perfection!”

And then he'd beam in that kind, endearing way he had and she would feel, again, that yes, she'd managed to look the part of the successful business woman that she was.

So she wore the dress and decided that she would also wear it on their next date, which would be tomorrow night.

Now, overdressed, overloaded, and overcrowded, she began to wish she hadn't been so generous that morning.

But she didn’t really regret it. Her team had worked hard that year, pulling miracle after miracle and the occasional latte treat was a small way of thanking them. As for the over-sized wreath… well, she didn't have one for the office and the children from the Boys and Girls Club had been so cute trying to sell them…

She was dragged back into her phone discussion when Joan burst into ringing laughter. “Oh my goodness! Maggie, sometimes I swear, you are a Christmas elf!”

“You think I'm overboard?”

“Oh, honey, you were never even on the ship!”

“I'll have you know, people pay good money for my expert and impersonal decorating expertise!”

But Maggie couldn't help but smile. Joan's laugh, even at long distance, was infectious and before she knew it, she was laughing, too. She had turned a corner, off the main street into a quieter one, with fewer shops and more cafes. Here, despite the weather, benches and outdoor seating areas lined the walkways in front of the eateries. Maggie found a table in front of a restaurant that had yet to open and collapsed into a seat. She dropped her bag and her wreath and carefully placed the lattes on the table.

Joan, on the other end, drew in a long, shuddering breath and sighed happily. “Oh my gosh, I miss you and your insane devotion to the holidays. No one else in River Run even comes close.”

The very thought of Christmas in her hometown conjured a painful lump in Maggie’s throat. She forced her words past it: “What, has my mom gone all normal and minimalist?”

“Oh, heavens, not on your life! She's into Quirky now, so everything she has is a little… odd? I guess? I don't know, like, cute, but in a weird way. She dragged my dad to the Christmas tree lot with her this year and wouldn't let him leave until she found something that was a cross between a Charlie Brown tree and something the Whos would put in their town square.”

“That sounds perfectly like my mom.”

Maggie reached out and traced a heart in the snow on the tabletop. The flakes were soft, already melting away. Snow rarely stayed long in the city. What wasn't removed overnight by an army of dirty city tractors was often bested by the warmth of the buildings and activity. When Maggie felt melancholy, something she seldom allowed, she would think longingly of the long, cold, white winters in River Run, the small mountain town where she'd grown up.

I'll go back someday, she thought. I'll spend a white Christmas there.

The lump in her throat hardened.

“Are you okay, Mags?”

Joan's question caught her off guard. She shook off the melancholy and saw her receptionist, Ally Conley, coming down the street in the opposite direction. She lifted an arm and waved, relieved to have something to distract her.

“I'm great!” she said brightly. “Why do you ask?”

“Mmm hmmm.”

Joan did not sound convinced. Maggie repressed a sigh. Joan knew her as well as any sister would have, almost better than Maggie's own mother did. They had met in kindergarten and quickly became inseparable. They often joked that they were psychically connected, although in truth, they were so familiar with each other that it often took little more than an oddly worded text message for one to know that the other was upset.

It was a connection that Maggie treasured most days. Not today, though, when she was feeling somewhat at odds with the world, although she did not know why.

Ally Conley, her face bright and pink with cold beneath the hoodie, trotted up to Maggie. Maggie handed her the lattes and the wreath and said, “I'll be inside in a minute.”

“Almond or oat?” Ally asked.

“Oat, of course.”

“You're the best boss ever!”

Maggie laughed and waved her off. “Did you hear that, Joanie? I'm the best boss ever!”

“I'm not surprised,” was the dry response. “So, what's wrong, oh great bossy one?”

Maggie waited until Ally was a few steps away before answering.

“Nothing's wrong, really. I'm just…” she struggled for a word.

Sad? But she wasn't sad, not really. How could anyone be sad with a growing business, a tightknit group of workmates, a handsome and thoughtful boyfriend, and Christmas only two weeks away?

Melancholy? Christmas in the city was wonderful, a whirl-wind of parties and decorations and noisy, happy crowds. It was also one of her busiest times at work. Most of the physical decorating and planning for the holidays was already done – shop windows were always planned months in advance and executed Thanksgiving week, usually at night – but there were the odd upscale parties that needed doing and next year's planning to be done. And this year they had taken over the prestigious Forsyth New Years Eve Ball account, a feather in the agency's cap and a potential game-changer career-wise. Frankly, Maggie didn't have time to be melancholy.

Lonely? Oddly enough, that word struck a chord, one she immediately dismissed. How could she be lonely? She was in the middle of one of the biggest cities in the world, her calendar was full of invitations from friends, clients, associates, and networkers, as well as her church events. And then, there was Felix, always ready with a dinner invitation or a romantic, impeccably planned date. She couldn't possibly be lonely.

Could she?

“I'm just feeling… nostalgic,” she said at last.

Nostalgic was good. It was truthful, if not fully, and it was a safe word. A sentimental word, but a distant one. Everyone felt nostalgic. But hardly anyone did anything about it.

She went on, “You know – the holidays, the decorations, the food. It makes me think of Mom and you and the way holidays used to be.”

Okay, that admission was unexpectedly hard. Even as she spoke, the lump in her throat grew to an almost painful size.

Ten years in, she thought ruefully, and I'm still homesick.

She found herself wishing that she hadn't put on make-up that morning, so that she could rub her suddenly burning face with snow. Instead, she tilted her head up to the sky, where a few flakes fell like kisses on her skin. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. Words that her mother had said, back when Maggie first told her of her desire to move to the city.

“You're making your dreams come true,” she'd said, holding both of Maggie's hands in her own as she spoke. “There's nothing more important than that.”

In the moment, it had seemed truthful. Now, on the brink of those dreams and years of work coming to fruition, Maggie found herself wondering.

Joan didn't answer right away. A long beat of silence stretched until Maggie couldn't stand the silence anymore.

“What, did I stun you?” she asked, lightly.

She pushed herself off the chair and started walking towards her office. Around her, the relatively quiet street was starting to wake up. The first restaurant workers were unlocking their doors or brushing off tables. A few children raced down the street towards the bus stop. And, right on time (if by on-time, one meant fifteen minutes late), Colin Taylor, Maggie’s chief assistant, was striding down the street towards their office building, his narrow face bent low over his iPhone.

“Well…”

Joan was hardly ever shy with her opinion and this hesitation made Maggie dread the next sentence.

“You can always come home, you know,” Joan said at last. “River Run hasn’t gone anywhere. We’re still here and, if the tourists are to be believed, we are actually a pretty nice bunch. Just sayin’. You can come home.”

Each word was like a brand in Maggie’s heart.

It isn’t that simple, she wanted to cry. It just isn’t that easy!

She couldn’t say it. She couldn’t even reassure Joan that she did, honestly, want to see her best friend again, that she missed Joan every bit as much as Joan missed her.
But Christmas in River Run?

No.

Impossible.

Because River Run, in her mind, didn't only mean home and her mother and her best friend. It meant memories – it meant James.

Her eyes stung.

Stop it! You're over him!

She drew a breath. “I’d love to, Joanie, but…”

“But Felix finally proposed?”

“What?” That shocked Maggie and her answer was aggressive and quick: “No!”

"No?” Joan sounded surprised. “Really? Why is he dragging his feet?”

I'm not ready…

The answer was almost out of her mouth before she stopped it. Because if she said that, Joan's next question would be “Why?” and Maggie didn't have an answer to that. Felix was perfect. So why did the idea of a ring fill her with trepidation?

Once again, she went with the safe answer: “We haven’t been going out long, Joan and-”

And once again, Joan countered: “Two years? Long enough at your age.”

“My age…?”

“Anyway,” Joan said airily, “if you aren’t even engaged to him, why not come home to your family for Christmas for once?”

“Joan! Come on, you know…!”

Joan cut in - “Yes, yes, yes, I know. ‘It’s my busiest season of the year, Joanie, and, anyway, I’ll see you on New Years!’ But I would like to tactfully point out that New Years is not Christmas and anyway, isn’t it about time that you dragged your fancy-pants lawyer boyfriend down here to see what the fuss is all about?”

“Felix? In River Run?”

Maggie couldn’t help but laugh. Joan, who had only met Felix once, when she came into the city for a girl’s weekend, naturally took this the wrong way.

“We aren’t that terrible, you know!” she said defensively. “He might actually like the hicks, once he got to know us.”

Maggie shook her head helplessly, then realized that Joan could not see it. “Oh, no, Joan, it’s not River Run! It’s Felix! Oh, he wouldn’t be able to stand a week of it.”

“What kind of a snob-?!”

“He is not a snob!” Now Maggie was on the defensive. How did one explain a man like Felix? Who was kind and sensitive and a cracker-jack lawyer with a steel trap for a mind and yet could not handle an overflowing toilet without running out to throw-up? Who was an excellent cook allergic to almost everything? Who had moved out of his apartment because he saw a mouse. Who couldn’t help but be right about most things, having read the encyclopedia as a child – twice. He wore expensive suits and, despite being a decent athlete, had been stunned and shocked when Maggie, in a fit of childish excitement, clocked him with a fluffy snowball.

He wouldn’t know what to do in River Run – and they wouldn’t know what to do with him.

“He’s… delicate,” she said finally, lamely.

“Melts in the snow?”

“He’s a city-man, through and through,” she returned. “I doubt he’s ever driven on an unpaved road, let alone shoveled one.”

“We do have paved roads here now. And electricity.”

“He’s allergic to horses.”

“Um, horses stay in their paddocks. They don’t exactly jump you in the alley ways that, by the way, we don’t have here.”

Maggie sighed. “Joanie…”

“Just invite him to the dance! There’s still plenty of tickets left and he’d only have to stay the one night. Heck, no one is using my Airbnb, I’ll give it to him, free of charge!”

“Joanie…”

“It’s completely horse and nut free and I promise he’ll have Wi-Fi so he won’t miss out on any zoom conferences with the Big City Judges. He’ll love it, we’ll love it, it’ll be great. Come on, Maggie, come home, please. I know she doesn’t say it, but your mother misses you.”

“My mother knows I’ll be home for New Years. And we talk almost every day.”

Joan groaned.  “That’s not the same and you know it.”

Maggie growled, “I know, Joanie, but I can’t.”

“We all miss you – I miss you. It just isn’t the same since you left and, anyway, I don’t know how you can expect me to do the dance floor decorations without you.”

“You’ll be fine!” Maggie protested, but Joanie went right on as though she hadn’t heard:

“And we’ve gotten the biggest tree for the town square and you should see what the high school kids have done with the decorations! They bested anything we ever did. And we’ve expanded the coffee shop, Dad and me, and we are doing a caroling night with Rick on the piano and you should be here! I know Christmas is hard on you, but it’s been, what, twelve years and surely you can-”

“I can’t.”

Maggie’s voice was sharp, brittle, almost angry. She was standing in front of her office now, pacing as Joan had rambled on and on, fighting herself, fighting her memories, fighting her own desires, but that last comment was too much. Joan was one word away from talking about James.

Joan immediately stopped talking and in the silence that followed, Maggie heard her own rampaging heart and realized that she’d sounded far angrier than she’d meant to. She had sounded worse than angry. She’d sounded cold.

All this time, she thought, and I still can’t talk about it. What kind of person does that make me?

The silence stretched out. Neither hung up. Both knew that they wouldn’t. Many years ago, when it became apparent that their vocational choices were going to put them into different colleges, the high-school-aged ‘sisters’ had made rules:

One: Call each other at least once a week.

Two: Never end a conversation on bad terms.

Three: Tell each other everything.

As far as Maggie knew, she’d never broken them. Until… well, whenever coming home for Christmas came up.

Two out of three, Maggie thought. I can at least do two out of three.

“I’m sorry, Joanie,” she said softly. “I really am.”

A beat. Then, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said it.”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s just…” a break in her voice “I really do miss you, Mags. It’s like… a part of me is missing when you aren’t here for Christmas.”

“I miss you, too. Really. I just…”

Can’t. I can’t go home again. I can’t go back and get hurt again. Not even for Mom. Not even for you. Loneliness is better than that.

“You have to look after you,” Joan interrupted her thoughts. “You have to do what’s best for you. I know that. I want you to, you know, live your life. But I want you to know, too, that whenever you’re ready, we are here. You can always come home.”

Maggie’s heart warmed.

“I love you, sis,” she said.

“I love you more.”

Maggie’s phone buzzed. When she pulled it away from her cheek, she saw a text from Ally: “Conference call with Audra Forsyth in ten minutes.”

Comfort washed over her like a wave. This was work – work was something familiar, something safe, something tangible and controllable. She was at her best when she was at work. Which, perhaps, said more than she cared to acknowledge about the rest of her life. But then again, not everyone was lucky enough to make a living doing what they loved and Maggie prided herself on never forgetting how blessed she really was.

She put the phone back to her ear in time to hear Joan say, “Work calls?”

“Yeah, I’ve got a big meeting today about that big society event on New Year's Eve. Which reminds me: I know exactly where to put the 9th tree, thank you very much – I’ll alter the layout and send it to you by noon.”

Joan laughed and in her laughter was the reassurance that all was, truly, well between them.

“Go and slay the day, kid,” she said.

Maggie smiled.

“Go and make the world a better place,” she responded as she always did.

The two chosen sisters hung up and Maggie put her shoulders back, her head up, and pasted on a big smile.

​It was time to go and conquer the city and make her dreams come true. ​

To quote Magnum, PI: "Now, I know what you're thinking. And you'd be right! Only..."

One of the most common pieces of writing advice I've heard is this: You need a Killer First Line, one that will hook the reader, be he/she an editor, an agent, your best friend, a stranger in Barnes and Noble, or even your mom. A Killer First Line grabs the reader's attention and pulls them, helplessly into your story, ensuring that they will read the second line. A Killer First Line sets up the rest of your book. And there's always the hope that if you nail that Killer First Line, it's going to be gracing blog posts and articles about writing from here until the end of time.

Needless to say, there is a TON riding on your first line. So much so, that you can spend hours, days, sometimes even weeks tinkering with the line, loving the line, hating the line, re-writing the line again and again, getting caught like a fish on a... line (see what I did there? :) ). It's daunting, that Killer First Line. It can even be debilitating. Which is why I recommend that you completely ignore the Killer First Line.

"WHAT?!" You exclaim. "Ignore the first line and lose out on fame and fortune and retweets? Are you insane?"

No, I'm not (or at least this isn't proof of it). I'm not saying never address the Killer First Line. I'm saying ignore it for your first draft. Maybe even your second or your third draft. Leave it alone - write a place-holder line and then ignore the stupid thing. Write the book first. Then write the first line.

​Star Trek – TOS:
 
Captain’s Log, supplemental:
 
On a mission from Star Fleet to bring back a piece of stolen technology, Mr. Spock and I find ourselves trapped behind the Neutral Zone in a small Romulan frontier town called Sargon’s Waste. We have the technology, but our ship has been destroyed. Thanks to Spock’s quick thinking and Vulcan resemblance to Romulans, we’ve not been discovered yet. Time is running out and we find ourselves in need of a ship and a pilot. We’ve been directed to Garak’s Tavern and told to ask for a man named Foley, who won’t ask too many questions…
 
      Garak’s was like any other tavern on the outskirts of any other civilization: run-down and tense, with representatives from every corner of the galaxy. The people who congregated at these places only had two things in common: a love for alcohol and the desire to be anywhere but home.
     The Vulcan was adapt at many forms of communication, but the tavern was clearly out of his depth. He hesitated in the doorway and Kirk, breathing easier in an atmosphere he understood, nudged him gently.
     “In the corner,” he murmured.
      They weren’t the only anomaly in the bar that night. A human stood bent over a game table, a game that reminded Kirk strongly of pool, though this one was played with holographic tribbles that were hit into the mouths of crocodile-like creatures. As they approached, the human sunk a shot and, looking pleased, stepped around to set up his next move.
      “Are you Foley?” Spock asked.
      The human glanced up at him. He was sturdily built, with short cropped hair, and, unlike most of Garak’s patrons, clean shaven.
     “Depends on who’s asking,” Foley said, and turned back to the table. His cue stick struck with practiced efficiency and the hologram tribble squealed as it disappeared into the crocodile’s maw. Foley grunted with satisfaction and straightened up. “If you’re looking for a pilot, I might be available.”
      “Nice shot,” Kirk said.
       Foley glanced at him and grinned a lopsided grin.
       “I hate tribbles,” he said with simple sincerity.
       In that instant, Kirk knew that they’d found their man.

     The biker leaned over me, his hot breath fanning my face. I was still reeling from the car accident and my eyes hadn’t yet adjusted to the burning desert sun. The dust was thick, choking my throat, rasping at the throats of the jeering, cat-calling crowd that surrounded me and Julie. Julie was whimpering – but with two men pinning my arms and the third demanding money I didn’t have, there was little I could do.
       “I said, you gotta pay the toll, man,” the biker said. He leaned in closer, his leering face inches from my own. “You gotta pay.”
      “I haven’t got anything,” I rasped and grunted when someone jammed a fist into my ribs.
     “Well now, ain’t that just too bad?” the biker said and he stepped back. “All right, boys…”
      He never got a chance to finish. There was the roar of an over-sized engine, a squeal of tires, a cloud of red-tinged dust, and then, most ominously of all, the booming shock of a shot-gun, fired close by.
    The dust settled around an enormous pickup truck. A tall, rangy man with a battered jacket, a cowboy hat, and a tin star stood in the doorway of the cab. He held the shot-gun like it was a part of his arm and his dark brown eyes scanned the crowd as he chewed slowly on a wad of tobacco. 
     “Party’s over, boys,” Sheriff Traynor said and adjusted the shot-gun ever so slightly. “I think you all better go on home now.”

“MILA!”

Mila’s heart was pounding in her chest. Fear screamed for her to run onward, but her brother’s desperate cry forced her to turn. Elias was on the ground, his legs entangled in fallen branches. Beyond him, still hidden by the forest, bodies crashed through branches and underbrush. The goblins were nearly upon them.

She ran back and pulled on the branches, but they were woven tight. Elias’ face was streaked with tears, his legs scratched and bloody.

“Come on!” Mila cried, tearing at the branches. It was no use – it was an enchanted trap and there was no immediate escape. Even as the first goblin appeared, a nightmarish creature all teeth and claws, clutching its club and screeching in triumph, she knew they were lost.

“Mila!” Elias pushed her off. “Run!”

“No!” She grabbed a fallen branch and held it ready as more goblins appeared. She wouldn’t leave her little brother and if they had to die, at least they would die defending themselves.

The goblins screeched in triumphant unison and scrambled towards them, teeth bared and mouths dripping in anticipation. Cold fear drenched Mila’s body and she stepped forward so that she could absorb the first blow. The nearest goblin launched himself at her, so close she could see the black flecks in his glowing red eyes and… suddenly, everything changed.

A song rent the air, high, delicate, and gorgeous. A shimmering translucent wall of pure energy sprung up in front of Mila. The goblin hit the wall, hard, but didn’t go through. He fell to the ground and rolled away, his skin black and sizzling from where it had made contact. The same thing happened when the other goblins touched the wall, until they were all burning. They ran along the wall, looking for entrance, but it stretched far out of sight and the song held it strong. Finally, burnt and angry, they disappeared into the forest. And Mila, still reeling from this sudden change of events, turned to see singer.

A woman stood behind the two children. Even her hand had not been raised for the spell, they would have known it was she who conjured the wall, for she resonated with pure energy and song. She was of medium height, with loose blond hair, dressed a white robe. She lowered her hand, finished the song, and then smiled brightly at the two frightened children.

“It’s all right,” she said. “You’re safe now, in my kingdom.” She made a motion with her finger and the branches released Elias.

“Who are you?” Mila stammered, as Elias got to his feet.

When the woman said her name, it was so long and complicated that the children could only stare in confusion. The woman laughed.

​“Just call me Kate,” she said and reached for their hands. “Come on! We’ve got places to go and things to see!”

As part of my new 2020 initiative, I decided (among other things) that I was going to be braver, that I was going to put myself and my work out there a little more. I've always wanted to be a published author (hooray for Amazon!), which I managed, but I wanted to reach out and try it a different way. I decided I need to query more literary agents. 

Now, for those of you who don't know, when you write a fabulous new novel, authors these days have two options: they can publish it themselves, using Amazon or WattPad or any number of platforms, or they can do it the old fashioned way. As I've always had a not-so-secret hankering to be published by HarperCollins or Penguin, I decided to pursue this route, which entails writing a synopsis of your book, a query letter for said book, and then sending query letters and samples to literary agents who, if they like it, will sign you on as a client and then shop your manuscript around to publishers like Penguin and HarperCollins.

I've been down the query road many, many times before. My twenties is a decade papered over with rejection letters. It hurt back then, when I was a tenderfoot, but now, I decided, I was tough. I've gotten bad reviews. I've gotten rejected, both to my face and online. I can take whatever is dished out. Accordingly, I lovingly crafted my letter, my synopsis, and triple-check my sample and then sent it out to a number of agents. I got back the usual auto-letters, thanking me for my submission and politely informing me that I can expect to hear back from them in 2-8 weeks. "Fine," I thought, "I can wait."

Not an hour later, the first rejection letter came in.  One particular agent couldn't wait to clear my query out of her inbox. As it turns out, I was wrong - you're never too tough for rejection to sting a little.

To be absolutely fair, the pre-filled rejection letter was polite and even encouraging. My story was not to the taste of this particular agent, but fret not, for surely the perfect agent must be out there! I was not inclined to take this part of the letter to heart. All I could see was the sentiment "Thanks but move along."

Turns out, this reaction of mine is not uncommon. Being cautious creatures, who long ago were at the bottom of the land-based food chain, we tend to focus on the dangers and the pains rather than the bright side of any situation. But just because we initially do, it doesn't follow that we have to stay there. 

In real terms, however, this one pre-filled rejection letter does absolutely nothing (except sound the death knell on a potential business relationship). The literary agent was quite correct in saying that just because my story didn't appeal to her, it doesn't mean that it doesn't appeal to anyone. But let's say the worst happens. Let's say no one wants to publish it. What then?

I realized very quickly that, if every literary agency in New York City rejects my manuscript, if Penguin or HarperCollins never learn of my existence, if every troll on Amazon puts my work at the top of their target list, none of that really changes anything. I'll still write. I'll still pepper my friends with questions like, "Would this work?" "What do you think of this plot twist?" I'll still type until my eyes are so tired until they feel like they are going to fall out. I'll still day dream and compose and make up brand new worlds in the privacy of my own head. It's what I do. It's what I've always done. Rejections sting, 'tis true, but they don't actually change much. I'm still me. I still like what I do and what I write, and lucky for me, I can still do it, regardless. There is great power in realizing where the real power lies.

So if you like what you're doing, keep on keeping on. Keep working it, keep growing, keep learning, keep trying, and remember: no amount of rejections can stop you from doing what you love. It may lead you to a new or different way of expressing your passion (you may not work with Leonardo DiCaprio, but you can still be in some pretty cool indie films), but in this day and age especially, there a more avenues for creative expression than ever before. So stick with it and keep going.

So I guess I better keep on keeping on. And while I'm at it, I'll treat myself to a chocolate bar tonight. Because rejection, even if it doesn't mean all that much in practical terms, it still has a sting.

I love it when a book defies my expectations and takes me to a terrific place! So imagine my delight when Risah Salazar of Reader's Favorite reported the same thing happening to her in her review! Below is the full review. Many thanks to Reader's Favorite for the review and remember folks: if you need a Christmas Gift, Universal Threat is at your disposal! #shamelessplug

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Reviewed by Risah Salazar for Readers' Favorite

​When Heather Miller introduces Jeff Levinson to her family as a friend, her brother, Nick, doesn't buy it. And when she tells them they're going hiking up a mountain, Nick had something else in mind. The three of them were supposed to trek up Lorne Mountain but Nick, in the hopes of wanting to see Jeff give up, took them to the steeper and wilder Stark Mountain instead. Heather protests but soon gives in, and the next thing they know, they are carefully treading up Stark Mountain. With Jeff getting excited, Nick feels defeated but doesn't lose hope. However, Nick's plans are put on hold when they hear a not-so-successful landing of an alien spaceship nearby. Universal Threat by Killarney and Margaret Traynor will make you scared yet have you clinging to hope at the same time.

First of all, I did not expect anything big from this book but I was wrong. This story was exciting and action-packed. I loved all the characters and how they developed throughout the plot. Though they made some pretty bad choices that seemed impractical and naive, I was still able to relate to them in some ways. Nick meant no harm, he just wanted what he thought was best for his sister. Jeff is not afraid to express himself although sometimes his personality makes others uncomfortable. Heather sees the good in everyone and believes that good will triumph over evil every time. The underlying concept of love and unity amidst conflict was evident. Killarney and Margaret Traynor's Universal Threat will help restore your hope in humanity. Trigger warnings include divorce/broken family and violence.

1. Hi and welcome to Wanderings! Our audience is dying to get to know you, so tell us a little bit about yourself!
 
Thank you for having me. It’s nice to be here.
I’m what would qualify as a ‘lady of mature years’, having raised five children, unofficially adopted another, who between them have brought twelve gorgeous grandchildren into my life, two of whom are now married. It’s rather disconcerting to also be mother to a grandfather, since we now have a great-grandchild. Yikes! Where did the time go? And here I am, only 26 years old! The upshot of all that is that I have loads of life experience to bring to my writing, as you can perhaps imagine.
I’ve always been a writer. It captured my heart as soon as I realised I could express myself that way, and I used to love essay writing at school. I wrote articles for the Women’s Page in a local newspaper when my children were young. Then progressed to short stories for magazines. And now, I write Contemporary Women’s Fiction, and have 9 published novels sitting on my bookshelves.
I’m currently enjoying a bit of a departure out of my comfort zone and have a historical romantic strand in my contemporary work in progress. It’s still in the early stages, but I’m thoroughly enjoying the research I’m having to do and the adjustments I have to make to my writing style to invoke a different era.

Although I was born in London, England, I have lived most of my life in Scotland - ten miles outside Edinburgh for the past forty or so years and my novels are all set in and around Edinburgh, though some of them wander elsewhere in Scotland in the unfolding. I love going ‘on location’, checking out the settings and making sure of my facts.

​2. What inspires your writing? 
            Stories! I have so many stories buzzing around in my head all the time. It’s great to have a way to record them. I’m a ‘people person’, sociable and interested in people of all sorts. A ‘people watcher’ too, making up stories about the man running for the bus, the woman in the checkout queue ahead of me who has rather a lot of wine in her basket, or the teenager looking round furtively as she walks along the street. My novels are very much character-based as a result. There’s always a story, but it’s people who inspire me.

3. What inspired you to write Gold Plated?           
My latest release, Gold Plated, was inspired while I was on holiday in 2016.
My husband and I were walking on a beach in the North of Scotland. Often, walking is a great time to chat, sharing thoughts and dreams, decisions and schemes, but today we were silent. There was a heavy mist on the North Sea and the horizon was hiding, taking our words with it. There was something about the haar: it silenced birds, the wind, the whisper of long grass as well as our words - but it couldn’t silence the continuous rolling waves as they broke onto the beach - and it couldn’t silence our thoughts.
Often, thoughts would tumble out of our silence and we would share them. There was no reason not to today - yet we didn’t. We were enjoying a world shrouded in a soft, white veil, from which rays of sunshine struggled to break free while the sea, ruthless, relentless, ripped through to crash on the shore.
I didn’t ask what he was thinking, but concentrated on the story that was forming in my mind.
We were here on vacation with our family and there, set like a pearl in the middle of the two weeks in 2016, was our anniversary. Forty-nine years of married bliss.
But that’s never true, is it?
No-one is perfect, so no two imperfect people can forge a perfect marriage - not even us. We’d had ups and downs - never ins and outs - and some years were better than others - but we’d never not wanted to be married to one another.
Our children had asked what we wanted to do to celebrate our Golden Wedding Anniversary the following year, 2017.
The conversation still swirled in my mind as my husband and I walked in our misty, magical silence.
Then, in a sudden rush of gold, the sun won the struggle to light the world, compelling us to pause to take a few photographs.
I stood at the water’s edge.
Wave after wave of water rolling in, breaking with cold white froth over the landscape of the beach - year after year of life rolling in, breaking with warm love over the landscape of our marriage.
But what if?
What if it had been different?
So I wrote a story about a very different couple who had a very different fifty-year marriage from ours.

4. What is your new book about? 
Gold Plated is about a couple, Rosanna and Paul, who are celebrating fifty years of marriage. When the story starts, their daughter, Heather, is helping Rosanna plan a Golden Wedding Anniversary party, and it looks like being a wonderful night: sixties music, all their friends and family present, good food and a beautiful location. Rosanna has been wresting with what to get the man who has everything, but has now bought the perfect golden gift for Paul:
 
“I can already feel the glow in my cheeks at his surprise in my choice. I think he assumes I’ll be getting him solid gold cufflinks or something.”
 
When an uninvited guest shows up at the party, Rosanna’s world is shaken and she is forced to look back over their fifty golden years and see them as they were.
Were they golden? Or just gold-plated?
So this book traces the ups and downs and drama of a love affair that lasts more than fifty years, surviving against all odds - but has it? And will it continue to survive?

5. Romance is the best! Which classic couple is your favorite: Elizabeth and Darcy? Jane Eyre and Mr. Rochester? Romeo and Juliet? Or do you have another favorite and if so, what makes them the best? 
Of the ones you mention, I’d have to say Elizabeth and Darcy. I think theirs would be a love that would last. They were both mature and made their decision to marry based on a love so deep it was able to overcome the constraints of the era.
I don’t usually write romance novels as such, though there is always some romance in the course of telling the story. I write about life, relationships, family - and romance is certainly part of that, just not always the main story line in my novels.
Having said that, this latest one, Gold Plated, is a love story so plenty romance in it. In fact, it is Contemporary Romantic Fiction.
All of my books, including Gold Plated, are ‘clean reads’ with no sex, swearing or gratuitous violence. I find it’s possible to allow the reader to feel romance and emotion without being graphic, by using a few well-chosen words and phrases. Like Jane Austen in Pride and Prejudice, it is possible to show passion in your writing while still keeping the book family friendly.

Bonus Question: So, you’ve just written a book: what’s next? 
Another book of course. Set in Scotland again, this time partly contemporary and partly set in the early years of the 20th Century. And I’m having a great time writing it.

Amazon author page: http://author.to/ChristineCampbell
Blog: http://cicampbellblog.wordpress.com
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/WriteWhereYouAre
Twitter: https://twitter.com/Campbama  
Instagram: https://instagram.com/christine_writes/
Facebook Group: Christine’s Kist Of Stories: https://www.facebook.com/groups/199853890760414/
YouTube Video: https://youtu.be/Cw0Dyt1Yeq4
Trailer for The Reluctant Detective Series: https://youtu.be/kg8HIhMszg4
 
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1. Hi and welcome to Wanderings! Our audience is dying to get to know you, so tell us a little bit about yourself!
Hello, and thank you for having me by. I’m the proud author of eight sweet, historical romance novels. I live in Toronto and love living where I can walk to everything. But we also love to get out of the city and hike in nature. Like most authors, I started out as an avid reader and I still love to read. Another passion of mine is travel. My husband actually inspired both of these loves. He dared me to start writing and he’s the one who got me hooked on travel. I’m also “trying” to get addicted to exercise since both reading and writing are sedentary activities and I want to be healthy enough to keep pursuing my interests until I’m old and gray.

2. When did you begin writing? What inspires your writing?
For me, these two questions go together. I’m an avid reader, as I said. If I’m reading a good book, even if the house exploded, I might not notice until I finished. My husband, not an avid reader, doesn’t love this particular quality. He used to complain about my reading and suggest I ought to be writing books instead of reading them. Finally, when I wouldn’t stop reading, he challenged me to write a book before I read another one. I didn’t think I could do it, but I accepted his dare and stuck my behind in front of my computer and gave it a shot. The end result, after a year or two of hard work, was my first published book, Tempting the Earl. Now I love writing almost as much as reading, but it doesn’t preoccupy me in the same way so my husband doesn’t mind nearly as much. And I love my husband dearly so I would say he’s my inspiration. This challenge took place about ten years ago with my first book getting published in 2010.

3. Family is so important! How does your family inspire and support your work?
My husband is very supportive. He thinks it’s great that his wife is a published author. He “lives” every book along with me. While we both know my characters aren’t real, we have been known to discuss them as though they were. If anyone ever overheard us, it would be hilarious! And my parents are my biggest fans! They read each draft of every book and then buy it when it releases. They are my motivation because they’re always anxious for the next one. ​
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​Fortunately, I really love this kind of thing. Research like this makes the past come alive in ways a text-book can't quite touch. Movie-making, too, allows us to remember that our ancestors were, at the end of the day, people just like you and me, trying to make a go of things and learning, working, laughing, fighting, and loving along the way.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to find out whether lemons would have been available in New Hampshire in May of 1906...

1. Hi and welcome to Wanderings! Our audience is dying to get to know you, so tell us a little bit about yourself!
Thank you for having me. I am a happily married homeschooling mother of three kids. Writing is my passion and cover design my hobby. I love a good story. If I can’t find one, I endeavor to write one.

2.What inspires your writing?
Life inspires me. I love people: how they make decisions, relate to those they love and hate, and what they pursue. Situations can spark ideas. Conversations, visual impressions, and people’s body language all have provoked me to mull over new ideas.

It's MONDAY!!

I know, I know, I feel the Monday blues, too. But to lift your spirits and to keep you motivated, here are some quotes from the best writers in the business. 

​Happy Monday, All!

Arthur Daigle is the author of the William Bradshaw series, as well as a biologist, avid gardener, and amateur artist. In this week's Five Questions For, he talks about his inspirations and why he isn't the tortured-writer-type.
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1. When did you begin writing?
I started writing back in high school. I had free time between classes and not much to do (I’m not much of a joiner), and I decided to spend some time writing. It’s addictive. My earlier works will never see the light of day, and that’s for the good of mankind, but it was a steppingstone to the work I do today.

2. What inspires your writing?
Oh where to begin? I draw inspiration from places you’d expect and ones you’d never guess. Books, movies, TV, dreams, back of the box video game descriptions, and sometimes the ideas just kind of show up, no idea where they came from.

3. What do you hope people get from your work?
I want them to laugh so long and so hard that the world looks a bit better when they’re done.

4. I know when I write a book, I always have a particular person in mind as an audience. Who do you write for?
See, that’s not the way I write. I write the kind of books I wish I could find at bookstores and libraries, so I’m basically writing for myself. I’ve since learned that middle school students, adults and seniors enjoy my work.

5. Not only are you a writer, but you love the natural world: tell us more about that passion!
I have a degree in biology and am a lifetime gardener. This helps me make fantasy worlds that better follow real world laws. You wouldn’t think that matters, but there comes a point where even lovers of fantasy ask why basic facts of nature are being ignored.

6. I use soundtracks to help keep me on track with books. Do you have any writing rituals to keep you motivated and in the mood?
I take long walks. Besides being good exercise, I find it helps me think. I imagine scenes from my books like short movie clips running in my head. These clips ‘run’ anywhere from a few seconds to five minutes long. Once I have enough of these mental clips, I sew them into a complete book and then begin writing.

7. I love sci-fi and Star Trek, so I have to ask: who’s better, Kirk or Picard? And why?
Kirk. There is an episode in Next generation where Worf’s adopted brother alerts the Enterprise that a world with intelligent aliens is about to suffer a worldwide catastrophe that will wipe out all life. Picard replied that the Prime Directive required him to let the world’s inhabitants die. It was a legalistic response without humanity, and it basically meant that a society not advanced enough to ask for help deserved to die rather than “contaminate” it by helping, as if extinction was a better alternative. The episode really bothered me. Kirk would have said, “Saving innocent people is more important than the rules.”

8. Okay, now the big question: Star Trek or Star Wars?
That’s a hard one because Star Wars has literally decades of TV shows and Star Wars has only the movies. I like both for different reasons. Trek has a wider universe with many sides (Klingon, Romulans, Cardasians and so forth). Wars did a better job of showing what life was like for the average man and the worlds looked more lived in.

9. So, you’ve just written a book: what’s next?
Write more books. Like I said, it’s addictive. I’ve heard of the tortured writer and I just can’t relate to that. When I write I get into a sort of flow where time flies by unnoticed. It’s a good feeling when I make work I’m proud of, and whether my books sell well or not, I’ll always keep writing.