Just My Opinion

How did you develop your writing? I bought my first computer in 1991 with the full intent of writing a book. I bought it on a Friday night after work. It took me until Monday night to get it turned on. It was 2006 when I finished that first book. I opted never to let it see the light of day. Bad, phew! Time and effort is all that did it. I read every book that I could, read every blog describing the process of writing and contacted friends, (Velda Brotherton) along with others who directed me toward books that would give me insight as to how to write. Thanks, Velda! My visit to the literary conference in Arkansas was the most influential. Dusty Richards, a writer of western novel’s led the conference and was very good at what he did.

Where do you get your inspiration from? I’m not sure; it must have been in-bred. I wrote poetry for several years before attempting my first novel in 91. I learned that the main thing about writing a book was to convey your thoughts so that the reader would understand what you were saying. Poetry doesn’t always do that, especially mine.

What is hardest – getting published, writing or marketing? Yes, that about covers it.

What marketing works for you? I’ve yet to find that out.

Do you find it hard to share your work? That has not been one of my problems.

Is your family supportive? Do your friends support you? My family has been very supportive.

Do you plan to publish more books? Frank Hawthorn is…Blindsided will be the beginning of at least a three part series. Those manuscripts are already finished. They were written with the lead character right after Blindsided and feature several of the same characters. We won’t tell anyone…but the name of the second one is ‘Frank Hawthorn had…The Missing Link. Be sure not to tell anyone, Okay?

What else do you do to make money, other than write? It is rare today for writers to be full time… I have retired four times from different occupations. My income is Social Security which I paid out over the forty plus years I was employed. I also receive a pension from two of my former employers. The royalties from my books will be the fifth occupation. I work full time at it now and intend doing the marketing my Boss Miss Tracy Kauffman at KG Books outlines for me.

What other jobs have you had in your life? My first real job was in food service sales. I later went on to management with that company and retired at twenty years. My next trick was just a little bit deeper into the food industry. I managed men who sold pots and pans. After nine years of that I opened my own business selling those same pots and pans as well as heating and air installations and service. I sold that business and came back to my home area and settled down in Alabama. I needed something to do so I went to the local college, Wallace State, and worked my way through the intricate process of getting a CDL license for driving a transfer trailer truck. After two years of that I had enough and settled down to writing and have been ever since.

If you could study any subject at university what would you pick? I think it would have to be English. I find I am short in knowledge of that subject.

If you could live anywhere in the world where would it be? By the water!

Detective FRANK HAWTHORN receives a call from W.J. FISHER. He said that his son Milford Fisher had disappeared. He found his boat near the Memphis, Tennessee branch of the Fisher Granary Corp covered in blood. Later that day the boat disappears as well.

Hawthorn is told that young Fisher discovered someone was stealing millions from the company and now he is missing. Everyone believes him dead except Hawthorn who has a premonition that maybe…he’s still alive.

Detective Hawthorn works his magic to solve the crime. After several incidents and mishaps, he discovers the truth and finds the guilty individuals. There is an important twist in the story and Frank Hawthorn uncovers a plot that will keep you on your toes. Frank wears his heart on his sleeve and is BLINDSIDED when he discovered the truth about the woman he loves while he searches for the truth. You’ll never guess what happens in this riveting tale.

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Genre - Crime Mystery

Rating – PG

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Website http://jamesmcopelandnoveli.wix.com/

10 Things You Didn’t Know About In Love With My Best Friend

by: Sheena Binkley

I enjoyed writing In Love With My Best Friend, which tells a tale of two friends finding love unexpectedly. But there are some things you may not know about the book or what led me to writing this book.

Here are ten things you may not know about the book:

10. In Love With My Best Friend is a fictional story: I have received various comments on whether the book is in fact fiction. Although I do write stories that display various personalities from people I know (friends, family, etc.), the book does not depict anyone from my life.

9. The versions on Amazon and Barnes & Noble are different: When the book was first published, I was only going to publish the book on Barnes & Noble only, but I decided to expand the publication by putting it on Amazon. At first, the versions were the same, but after I completed the conversion process on Amazon, the story had minor differences (since as a certain location), but the story is still the same.

8. Some of the places in the story are real: Since I grew up in Houston, there are a lot of places I know and grew to love. The setting and places in the Barnes and Noble’s version of In Love With My Best Friend are in fact real (Maggino’s, The Corinthian, Aquarium, Perry’s Steakhouse & Grill), while in the Amazon’s version, the some of the places are fictional (Angelica’s).

7. A soap opera was my inspiration for In Love With My Best Friend: Before I wrote the story, I had to think up the basis of the story and which direction I wanted it go. One day, I was watching General Hospital (which is my favorite soap by the way), and I started to think about the idea of best friends being in love with each other. Although there wasn’t a plot on the soap that had this scenario, I instantly wanted to write about the subject, but have a soapy edge to it. Hopefully the story didn’t provide too much of a soap opera storyline, but I just wanted to have the right amount for an enjoyable read.

6. The Ending: I know several readers have commented about the ending, and even I had to admit the ending was a bit short. I was going to include an epilogue at the end explaining Trevor and Camille’s HEA, but since another story will be coming soon, I figure readers will have a chance to read how Trevor and Camille’s relationship progressed since they finally proclaimed their love for each other.

5. Chelsea Was Not Going To Be Camille’s Roommate: At first, I was intending to have Chelsea be a coworker of Trevor’s and the two would have fell in love at work; but I figured why not throw in the fact that Camille knew Chelsea and they were college roommates.

4. The Wedding Scene Was Different: The wedding scene was quite hilarious in the book, but I had a different scenario in mind. When writing, I was not going to have anyone know about Trevor and Camille until the wedding, when Camille confessed her love for him. In other words, Camille would have been present and in a bridesmaid dress when she broke the news. Since I decided to write the story as a novella, I changed several scenes and have everyone figure it out before the wedding.

3. There Was a Sex Scene: Trevor and Camille had a bit of sexual tension in the story, but they didn’t go further than kissing and touching. I did write a sex scene between the two, but decided to scrap it, because I felt it would have been out of character for the two (especially Camille).

2. A Series Was Never Intended: Usually with series, I like them, but on the other hand I don’t. I usually like to keep things simple and give the characters a happy ending. Since the book’s release, I have received comments from readers asking whether there will be another story explaining Tia and her relationship with Charles and Eric. I started to think about that as well, especially since there is so much potential between Tia and Charles and the comment Camille made regarding the tension between the two since high school. So yes, there will be another story coming that will feature Tia and whether her relationship with Eric has progressed and the issue she has with Charles (and trust me, it’s a doozy!).

1. In Love With My Best Friend Was Not The Original Story To Be Released: In Love With My Best Friend was not the first story I wanted to publish. In fact, I had an entire different story to tell; but I felt the story was too drama -filled to publish (Yep, I felt it was too much drama)! Instead, I wanted to produce a romantic story, because I’m a sucker for romance The story that was set to publish was Baker Six, which tells a tale of close-knit friends reuniting when one of their own dies in a tragic car accident; but was it an accident? With many secrets surrounding the friends, they soon realize they may not have known each other as well as they thought. The book was going to be a 3-part series, which detailed each friend, their secret, the reveal and the aftermath. With this story, two of the characters may be quite familiar. I decided instead of publishing this story, I would use two characters, Trevor and Camille, to create In Love With My Best Friend. Baker Six provided their back story (which may be a little altered) as well as a few twists that prevented their relationship to progress. Twenty chapters of the Baker 6 are available on my blog at sheenabinkley.wordpress.com as well as my blog on Goodreads. More chapters will be uploaded soon.

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Genre - Contemporary Fiction

Rating – PG13

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Connect with Sheena Binkley on Twitter

Website http://sheenabinkley.wordpress.com/

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This novel contains baby dragons and adventure. It also encompasses valorous knights and humor. It’s a tale of magic and mayhem.

Knights of the Dragon is an exciting tale of knights, wizards, romance and dragons. The adventure to save Leeander is on! When an exceptional baby dragon is born will it change everyone’s destiny?

A dragon named Ryxa befriends a boy only to discover that his kingdom will soon be conquered by another and the boy is doomed, and so to save him and his people she hires knights to go on an adventure with her and the boy to find magic.

Leeander’s knight Stone is sent out to capture a wizard in an attempt to defend the kingdom while trying hard to keep his eyes off princess Alexa, who insists on going with them in pursuit of a sorcerer.

Meanwhile, a red dragon named Ella falls for a black dragon, which is taboo, and she tries hard to resist his irresistible charm. She doesn’t want her life to be left in ruins because of bonding with a black dragon.

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Genre - Fantasy

Rating – PG-13

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Connect with Albert J. Gallant on Twitter

Website http://www.independentauthornetwork.com/a-j-gallant.html

CHAPTER 1

Here’s how it happened, and most of this is true.

That night, a single pop of gunfire next door interrupted a well-earned scotch. 

Long day.  Feet up.  Tie loosened with the Giants down by two runs in the ninth.  You know how it goes.  You wake up expecting normal things to happen—like a shower without the hot water heater going bust, or fixing your eggs without burning a fat blister, or the judge deciding that you are, indeed, entitled to see your kids every other weekend.  One bang of the gavel and you trip backwards down the stairs of Progress, rolling and tumbling until you land on your rear, dazed, alone, and seriously pissed off.

First floor: defeat, desperation, ladies’ lingerie.

It’s amazing how a thin slingshot of material—a mixture of lace and cotton, a thong, or thongs, plural—can ruin ten years of marriage, a career, and the relationship you’re supposed to have with your children.

The fault lies with me.  I’ve admitted it.  I’ve apologized.  I’ve begged.

I am, and remain, an unforgivable wretch.

At least, according to the court system.

And those who are unfamiliar with me.

I jumped to my feet, drenching a pants leg with sloshing scotch and melting ice, and pulled two blinds apart at the window.

The woman next door, the first time I met her, she initially said her name was Jan.

She said Jan, I know she did, but we’ll get to that later.  The mistakenly delivered mail from Sterling Savings & Loan referred to her as Kerry Parker—do I really look that sketchy?  Sketchy enough for her to lie?  Also, I used this joke on her, an old standby:  “I think I know you from somewhere…maybe from high school…yeah, didn’t we have Chemistry together?  No?  Well, we do now.”

Jan, Kerry.  Kerry, Jan.  I’ll call her Kerry.  It’s easier that way.

She moved in six months ago and lived alone in a modest ranch home with dark, red brick and white shutters.  Her plants died in the summer heat while her yard stayed over-watered and jungle-like.  What kind of person does that?  I was positive that an entomologist could find a number of undiscovered species crawling throughout its vines and lush green canopy.  I’d offered to mow it for her several times while mowing mine (shirtless, of course—the tan stays even, period), but she always declined, said she could use the help but no thanks, and then would scurry inside like she was trying to get away from me.  Cute butt waggling in short shorts, flip-flops slapping against her heels as she climbed the three steps leading up to her porch.

I mention the cute butt because, well, how could you not?  I mean, really, it’s like a bubble.  The one time I got a better look from my office window, as she sunbathed in her backyard—no top and a pink thong, of all things—that was all it took to confirm that yes, “bubble” was the perfect word.  It’s not like I was spying.  I just happened to be on the computer upstairs and looked outside.  Maybe for a little too long—what’s the harm in that?

The difference between a peeping tom and coincidence is timing—and duration.

She was thirty-two, eleven years younger than me.  And I know this because I got a quick look at her driver’s license—Kerry Parker, confirmed—which I found in the front seat of her car.  (A storm was coming.  Her windows were down.  I try to be helpful in such situations.  I do.  Honest.) 

She was separated from her husband, according to the letter from Wellington & Wellington, Attorneys at Law, which, coincidentally, was the same firm handling my case.  So it was a complete accident that I opened the envelope.  I thought it was mine. 

When I gave it to her, I got the feeling that she was slightly unnerved.  Explaining what happened eased her apprehension, I’m sure of it, but she still gave me the same kind of look you give a car salesman when you know he’s trying to give you the shaft and guaranteeing that you’ll enjoy it.  I should know.  I’ve gotten that look several times peddling metal over at Thrifty’s Used Cars.

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Genre - Mystery/Suspense

Rating – PG13

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Blog http://www.ernielindsey.com/

PROLOGUE

October 1940, Leconfield, Yorkshire, ENGLAND

What it was about the large farmhouse Hawk did not know, but from the first moment he crossed its threshold, he felt at home. Its thick stone walls embraced him; its low beams protected him.

Homesickness or nostalgia couldn’t account for his feelings because the place was very different from its counterparts at home. Nothing in England reminded him of Poland.

‘Come in, come in, don’t stand there like statue,’ the farmer demanded, his gruff Yorkshire accent softened by his friendly tone. He looked to be in his fifties, although there was the fragility of old age about him, too, as if his body had worn out earlier than it should.

‘You do understand me, don’t ye? I know ye’re foreign an’ all…’

Hawk grinned and nodded. Although the man’s accent was strong, he understood it well enough. ‘I speak English. We had to learn before they would let us up in their planes.’

The farmer nodded sagely, still waiting for him to move into the house more fully. Hawk wanted to savour the moment like a fine liqueur, letting the taste remain on his tongue, breathing it in through his nose.

There was mustiness in the air of a damp space kept closed up for too long. He could smell furniture polish and wet dog. There was also the odour of manure that had accompanied them in from the farmyard. None of the individual scents he identified gave him sensations of pleasure, but in combination, they affected him pleasantly.

He’d grown up in the city. Rural life was alien to him. Mostly, it worried him with its isolation, but not here, not in this farmhouse. Here, the rural setting suited him. Here, the isolation felt comfortable, as if he could be wholly himself for the first time without the intrusion of others. The sound of aircraft landing and taking off nearby only added to the feeling of home.

‘Is it shell shock ye’re sufferin’?’ The farmer was staring at him now, his deeply lined brow puckered with concern.

Hawk gave himself a mental shake and smiled at the man again. ‘Sorry, no. It is just this house. I feel like I know it… or it knows me. I sound like a crazy person, I know. Would you prefer I left?’

He didn’t want to leave – not now. Not ever, a little voice in his head said. If the man began to worry about Hawk’s sanity, however, it might be better. They didn’t want to get a bad reputation with the locals. Already, the man might see him as an intruder. After all, Hawk had wandered up his long drive to the farmhouse for no reason other than he wanted to know what was at the end of the road. He hadn’t been invited onto the property until the farmer had seen him and offered him welcome.

‘Nah then, lad, don’t be daft. I invited thee, didn’t I? And our Mildred’ll give me a right say-so if I let thee go before tha’ve had a cup o’ tea. We’ve heard about thee lads, the 303 Squadron?’

The man had turned and had begun walking down the dark hallway, talking all the while. Hawk couldn’t draw the moment out any longer. He had to follow along behind the farmer or be considered rude.

He took several long, striding steps to catch up with the Yorkshireman. ‘Yes. We were rotated out to Leconfield from Northolt for a break. Six weeks we have been in the air.’

‘One hundred and twenty-six kills in six weeks, they’re sayin’. Impressive, and we aren’t impressed by foreigners easy in these parts.’

‘We lost eighteen Hurricanes, seven pilots and we have five more badly wounded. That is not so impressive.’

‘If I told thee the losses we took at the Somme, thee’d think twice about that.’ The man’s voice was hollow, as if it came from a long way away, a lifetime away.

‘You survived the Great War?’

‘Aye. Lucky’s what I was, nowt but lucky. The mustard gas got ta ma lungs, but nowt bad. Now ‘ere’s our Mildred…’

They’d made it to the back of the house by now and entered the big country kitchen with its wooden table in the centre and flagstones on the floor. A big black range burned hot against the far wall. He could feel its heat from where he stood. A small window over the sink was open, as was the back door, probably because it was midday and the sun was shining. The cool air from outside also balanced the heat inside a little.

He could see autumn leaves, golden and beautiful, on the oak tree just outside the window. They seemed to glow in the sunlight.

Mildred was a matronly woman with grey, straggly hair and a friendly smile. Her face was flushed red from the heat of the stove. She wiped a strand of hair away from her face with the back of a floury arm.

‘Ayap, who’s tha wi’ ye then, our Alf? A ‘andsome airman fromt’ looks of ‘im.’

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Genre - Historical  Romance

Rating – PG

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Website http://nhysglover.com/

Chapter 4:  Alcohol and the Black Cat

The next day, I wanted to go back and see if I could get some real information out of Plug Ugly gang leader Walter McKenzie in Hoboken, New Jersey.  He was doing business all along the docks during the time Poe was working in New York.  Today, he was limited to the docks in Jersey.  I was hoping he could supply me with some specific clues about Poe and his relationship with the murdered tobacco shop girl.

The cobblestone streets in the poorer neighborhoods collected refuse and dead animals.  People threw their garbage out of the windows and the dead rats, dogs and cats fell down into big cracks in the road where they would stink to high heaven.  One of our tortures as children would be to force the victim’s face down into one of these cracks until he or she began screaming for release.

I went through the same inspection process as I entered the dockside building where McKenzie had his center of business.  “Watch it with your hands, ladies,” I told them, “don’t touch anything you don’t want to buy,” I added, as they felt all around my legs and up my back.

“He’s clean,” said a ham-fisted gangster wearing a dock worker’s uniform of black gabardines and red suspenders.  He also had a cargo hook hanging from his belt that probably served more as a weapon than as a loading utensil.  The three of them pushed me into the back room and slammed the door.

Today, Walter McKenzie was not in his cups.  Instead, he had two prostitutes, one on each knee, giving him little chucks under his three chins and whispering sweet nothings in his cauliflower ears.  They wore Chinese gowns with gold dragons on the front, and their black stockings could be seen as their legs crossed each other. 

He swiveled his big chair around toward me.  “O’Malley, is it?  Ya ain’t no relation to Father O’Malley, the priest who comes down to the docks to tell us we’re all goin’ to Hades, are ya now?”

“No, I’m just trying to show the world that the Irish aren’t all a bunch of sots and drunkards.  I thought maybe you could answer a few questions for me now that you’re not besotted.  The case I’m working on has to do with events happening in New York City from 1846 to 1849.”

“It depends.  I ain’t no stool pigeon.  And I won’t help the police,” McKenzie said, pushing the girls off his knees and standing up.  “Get back to work on your backs!” he laughed, and the women left the room giggling.

“I won’t ask anything that would put your grand reputation in jeopardy,” I said, “and I am not a flat foot.  I’m a vet who’s trying to make a living in private investigations.”

“A man of the Union, are ya then?”

I nodded.

“That’s a horse of a different color, now ain’t it?  Ask away, O’Malley, me boy-o.  Ya risked your life so’s the likes of me can stay in business, and I’ll give ya my best memory, ‘though there’s been a lot of malt into me bowels and a few whacks on me skull during all these years,” McKenzie laughed, pointing to his head.

“Did you ever work for a gentleman by the name of John Anderson?  He owned a tobacco shop in New York during those years,” I said.

“Anderson.  Let me see now.  That name’s familiar.  It was an Anderson come to me about that Rogers girl.  Mary Rogers was her name.  But it weren’t a Mister Anderson.  It were Missus Anderson who come to me about the woman trouble that Rogers was having.  She was ready with the money, and I told her about the best: Madame Restell, the female doctor with the mansion on Fifth Avenue.”

I tried a different approach on the old blackguard. “All right.  I know about Mary Rogers and her troubles.  What I want to know is if Mister Anderson was mentioned at any point in your conversation with his wife?”

McKenzie furrowed his brow.  “Ya know, she did say that the girl was living with them when she got into trouble.  I thought it were strange, but these rich bastards are always knockin’ up the hired help, if ya know what I mean,” he snickered into his big hand.  “She also asked me if I could send somebody to follow this Mary Rogers around.  Missus Anderson said she was worried that she’d get into more girl trouble.  So’s I sent Bernie Ryan to do it.”

Most of this information, except for the hired goon, verified what the poet William Ross Wallace was telling me about Anderson and his relationship with the Rogers girl.  Ergo, if Anderson got his tobacco shop girl pregnant, and his wife found out about it, then she would certainly want to have the problem taken care of post haste.  Mary Rogers and her mother moved into their own place shortly after that.  She was finally out of temptation’s way.

However, if Anderson did impregnate the girl, it still didn’t prove he wanted to kill Poe.  Poe, in fact, according to Wallace, was hired to write the story that helped keep the police from suspecting the tobacconist millionaire of killing the girl.  Anderson would not have wanted Poe harmed, if he were being helped by the famous writer.  No, there must be another connection between Poe’s death and the death of Mary Rogers, and I needed more information to find out what that connection was.

“Is there any more information you remember about Rogers and the Andersons?  Also, did you ever hear about Edgar Allan Poe having anything to do with the Rogers death?” I asked McKenzie.

“No, all I knew were that Missus Anderson wanted the problem handled by the best.  I never heard no Mister Poe mentioned at all, me boy-o,” said McKenzie.

I got up from my chair and reached out to shake Walter McKenzie’s hand.  His grip was still strong at age sixty-two.  “Thank you.  I’ll be in touch, if you don’t mind, if I can think of anything else,” I said, and I handed him one of my business cards.  “If you remember anything, just send me a message,” I said, and I left the room.

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Genre – Historical Steampunk Mystery

Rating – PG13

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Website http://contempinstruct.com/Forevermore/

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The Footsteps I Follow: Authors I Admire

by Jim Meskimen

Good authors get under your skin.  As with anyone we have a high degree of admiration or affinity for, an author becomes a very significant person in a reader’s life, despite the fact that the reader may never meet them, or even exist in the same time period.

A good author is like a good guide on a dangerous trail: you want him to make sure you are following behind, and for him to not forget about you.  The author has to always bear in mind that he has an audience along for the ride, and that they need to KNOW what is happening, or in the case of mysteries, NOT know… in order to eventually know and get something out of the experience.

It’s natural for beginning authors to borrow from their heroes.  One walks in the footsteps of the giants that preceded one, and in that way learns to travel on one’s own.  When a writer can ONLY write in the style of a predecessor, and never “leave the nest”, then he runs the risk of having his audience lose patience and simply read the less adulterated works of the originator of the style.’

I was responsible a few years back for directing multi-cast audiobook presentations of the complete fiction works of a particular author, L. Ron Hubbard.  He wrote millions of words of best-selling fiction over a career that spanned more than 50 years and produced numerous New York Times Bestsellers.

In having the rare pleasure of reading Hubbard’s works in their entirety, I noticed that he was never tied down to a particular style or kind of story, but he did always achieve one effect that I found fascinating– he could paint a visual picture that was vivid enough for the reader to “observe”, and complete enough for the reader (or in our case, listener) to make his own discoveries about.

In great art, this is very key.  A great painting shows the viewer the emotion, and invites him or her to make their own judgment and feel whatever they choose to project onto it.  Lesser works tell us what to feel, insist that we understand things a certain way, assert it over and over again, in the case of very poor writing.

Hubbard’s fiction is literature, and great art.  Rather than say “He was very nervous about the interview with the cattle baron”, he will highlight in the narrative things that will help the reader to DISCOVER the emotional state of the character, by directing our attention to the way he fingers the brim on his hat, how the furrows of his brow hold the shadows of a nearby lamp like rows in a field, or how his adam’s apple suddenly feels like it’s too big to be contained by his collar.  The reader gathers these images and comes up with a self-generated idea of what it must feel like for this character.  He can BE that character in the scene.

Any great author has succeeded in allowing the reader to enter the universe of his tale and his characters.  That’s what we want, we readers, escape and adventure.  The best take us along, show us the sights, and let us make up our own minds about what it all means.

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Genre - Mystery/Zombie

Rating – PG13

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Website http://www.galaxypress.com/