I can see your frown and hear you ask, what does juggling have to do with being an author? In my case, everything.
As a fulltime author, I try to write every day, and that involves a great deal of time and responsibility juggling. As much as I might like to hide myself away in my office, put on my headset, and forget everything else, I can’t. I have responsibilities that take up a great deal of time.
The first one is my responsibility toward my husband. We’ve been married 51 years, so he’s a keeper, but he does need to be fed, have his clothes laundered, and counts on my company every now and then. Since he works out of our home, occasionally I get to play receptionist, too.
I have family obligations that could include attending events for my grandchildren, although only four of them live in the same city that I do, but there are sports events, medical appointments, a school pickup or drop-off that require Grandma’s assistance. Neither of my sons live in the city, but they do come home for visits and when that happens, my time is needed with them, too.
My mother is 95 and living in a nursing home which I visit two mornings a week. I’m fortunate that while she lives in a delusional world of her own, she still knows me. There are days when she isn’t good and that makes it almost impossible to focus on work when I get home. But she’s still with me, so that’s a good thing.
And then there are other things like appointments, shopping for groceries, cleaning the house, meals with friends, that also cut into my writing time. And add to that the weather. The false summer weather expected this week will make it even harder to work than ice and snow.
Then, there is juggling in writing the book itself, editing, it, meeting the deadlines and submitting it, promoting it, although truth be told, promotion is my weak spot. As a rule, I try to write one book at a time. That way, I can stay focused on one story, but I know other authors who have several works on the go at once and that must take a considerable amount of juggling!
In my novel, Make Mine a Manhattan, my heroine has a lot of juggling to do, too. Check out the preview!
Today’s post is about imagery. Imagery is a figure of speech, used by authors essentially to draw pictures with words and allow the reader to imagine what the characters see or feel. It engages the senses–see, hear, smell, taste and touch–to deepen the reader’s comprehension of what’s happening and how they should respond to it.
Not sure exactly what imagery entails, check out this website. SmartBlogger
As an English teacher for more than thirty years, I have a strong appreciation for descriptions and using literary devises helps me convey the way my characters feel, what they see, hear, smell, taste, and touch. I use similes, metaphors, onomatopoeia, and yes, the dreaded cliches in my work. Below is the prologue to one of my books. See how many images you can find.
I have a paranormal suspense series called The Punishers.
There are two worlds in New Orleans, the mortal realm and the underworld populated by immortals, the undead, and other preternatural characters. The detectives of NOPD’s Paranormal Investigative Squad follow up on crimes involving the underworld, and when those crimes spill over into the mortal one, look out!
Paranormal/fantasy
Book One, The Tigress starts with a prologue about the main character.
My name is Ellie Taggart, at least it is now. Over the last thousand or so years, I’ve had many names—too many to count, too many to remember—but this will be the last one I’ll need. Times have changed. Evil doesn’t hide in dark corners. It lives in the light. This world we live in is filled with more monsters than humans realize, more than one being can deal with in a lifetime, even if that lifetime does span centuries.
I’m tired. I would like to fall in love, have children, grow old, and spend the last of my days quietly sipping tea on a porch swing, surrounded by purring cats, not battling the forces of evil. But that’s not going to happen. It can’t. I’m the last of my line—maybe even the last of my kind—and that’s how it has to be.
If you saw me on the street, you might not notice me, but if you did, you would see a thirty-something woman with the golden skin and deep brown hair of her Asian ancestors. If you really looked at me, you might note my pert nose, wide mouth, pouty lips, and unusual almond-shaped eyes. What you wouldn’t see is who I am—what I am.
I was born deep in the jungles of the Indian Subcontinent, at the base of the Himalayan Mountains, during a time when few kept track of dates the way they do today. My father was a Royal Bengal tiger, the largest and most majestic of his kind, while my mother was a rare and unusual rakshasa. Don’t recognize the word? Not too surprising. So many people have forsaken the religion of their ancestors to swear allegiance to greed and corruption, the very thing that gives evil its power.
Even those who know what a rakshasa is don’t believe we exist anymore, and other than me, they’re correct. We are the shapeshifters found in Hindu, Buddhist, and countless other mythologies. We’re also known as “Maneaters”—not that I’ve ever indulged. Give me chicken or fish any day.
People have always been afraid of what they don’t understand, and shapeshifters of any kind certainly fall into that category. In truth, in human form, my mother was petite, delicate, and so very beautiful, with black hair, bronze skin, and almond-shaped amber eyes—my eyes now, orbs I hide behind tinted lenses.
Sadly, like witches with warts and hooked noses, rakshasa was depicted as a huge, ugly creature with fangs and long, sharp, claw-like fingernails. They were considered cruel, growling beasts with insatiable appetites for human flesh. I’ve seen them portrayed with flaming red eyes and hair, drinking blood with their palms or from a human skull, a lot like the less than fair representations of vampires. Most of those I know these days aren’t a bit like that. They sip wine in crystal goblets and get their blood online from specialty stores.
Can I fly? No, but my mother could. She could assume the shape of any creature, even the fearsome yeti, but for lack of a better term, I’m a half-breed, with sorely limited skills. While I have superhuman strength, I can’t vanish, but I’ve learned to be an expert at camouflage. I have some telepathic ability, which makes it easy to make people forget what they saw, or imagine they witnessed something else. Afterall, who really believes in the creatures of the night? It’s the stuff of television programs, movies, and books. But the legends are real—too real. Am I immortal? No, I’m not a god or a demi-god, but my lifespan is impressive, and like my mother who died at Draug’s hand, killing me takes a lot of work.
I lived deep in the jungle until my father passed on, and then mother moved us up the mountain to a safer place. There she taught me to survive and guided me through my first changes. Unlike the shapeshifters controlled by the moon’s power, I can shift whenever I need to, and while in that form, heal and recover from whatever damages have been inflicted on me. When I reached my maturity, many years older than I appear, she told me that if anything were to happen to her, I needed to seek the Chou-Lan Monastery in the hidden valley. There the monks would tutor me and teach me how to use my powers.
Life was pleasant, uneventful, until that fateful day when Draug and his revenant found us. Unlearned in the art of battle, unable to defend myself, I did as Mother requested, I shifted into my tigress form, ran, and hid.
The sounds of clashing swords and tearing flesh were horrific. Four against one. In the heat of the battle, no one thinks clearly, but in the end, it was my mother’s headless body that lay upon the field. Draug’s angry cries at the loss of his prize, killed by his own hand, split the silence. That night, I vowed to avenge her, but it was centuries before I understood the real reason for his agonized screams, and that while she’d died, she’d won the battle. When the monsters had gone, I crept from my hiding place. There was nothing left for me there. Mourning, the pain so deep it made it hard for me to retain any shape, I searched for Mother’s head, but it was gone. Claimed as a trophy? Proof that he’d killed her? To this day, I don’t know. With grief ripping me apart, I built a pyre and cremated what was left of her the way she had my father. The mountains no longer held any appeal for me.
Leaving our sanctuary, I made my way into the hidden valley and searched until I found the monks she’d spoken of. Shifting into human form, I told my story. Decade after decade, century after century, I lived hidden among the holy men where I studied, practiced the arts I would need to survive, and learned of the responsibilities I carried as one of the punishers, beings born of the light whose sacred duty is to fight the forces of darkness and defend those unable to protect themselves. When the time came, I said farewell to the last of those who’d become family to me and headed into the world to fulfil my destiny as the scourge of evil.
Since then, I’ve roamed the earth and watched century after century as the powers of darkness have grown, turning the innocent into monsters almost as evil and corrupt as they are. Not all of the non-humans and undead dwelling amongst humanity are evil, just as not every human is good, but in the last century, those who foster hate and greed, jealousy and envy, and the rest of the deadly sins, have grown more powerful, more daring.
When my enemies crossed the line, I found them and dealt with them. I’ve wiped the minds of witches, wizards, and warlocks who dared practice the dark art and turned their empty shells over to their authorities. I’ve dealt with the undead and shapeshifters myself, battling those who posed a danger to humanity, consigning their unholy remains to oblivion. With each battle, I’ve learned and grown stronger, for power comes from knowledge. But I still have much to learn before I can face Draug.
I serve the light, going where darkness dwells, watching it insinuate itself more completely into modern society each year. It needs to be stopped—but I’m just one.
Draug doesn’t know I exist, but I know him. I remember the sight and smell of him, and one day, we’ll meet on the field of battle. It’ll be a fight to the death, one I’ll fight in my true form—my father’s form. But until then, protecting humanity from those who would use and abuse them for evil purposes is my mission. Who am I, you ask? I’m the Tigress.
Welcome to Tuesday Tales, the weekly blog that gives you a peek into what a select group of authors are currently writing. This week, we have a picture prompt, and our scenes are limited to 300 words. I’m continuing with Finding Melinda, my contemporary romance suspense. Here’s the picture I chose:
A set of homemade delicious burgers of beef, bacon, cheese, lettuce, and tomatoes on a dark concrete background. Fat unhealthy food close-up
Melinda raised her eyebrows. “Seriously? A second ago, you wanted to adopt him. Now, you’re postulating that he might be some kind of master criminal. I’ve heard of bifurcated reasoning but make up your mind.”
“Bifur what?” Danny cocked his head.
She chuckled. “Bifurcated. It’s today’s word of the day and means diverged or divided, like two choices. Relax, Baby Bro. When have you ever known me to go off half-cocked? If anything, you’re always accusing me of being too cautious. I thought I had a wild imagination, but that little rant of yours proves otherwise. Maybe you should take up writing, too. For the record, I’ve replied that my adoption was done through the May-Swift Agency as well, and that my C L B does resemble his, so the probability that we are more than regular siblings is a strong one. I also asked for his last name and a little information about himself. After I get more info, I can do an Internet search, check his social footprint, and learn a little more about him before I decide what to do next. If I find anything suspicious, I promise to back away. Maybe he could come to Ottawa to meet us instead. Then, you would be there to protect me.”
Somewhat mollified, Danny shoved the last of his burger into his mouth, stood, and gathered the empty beer cans.
“I’m only trying to look out for you,” he defended his words, “But having him come to you might work—but you can’t let him stay with you. He’ll need to stay in a hotel, and while he’s there, I’ll camp out in your spare room. Who wants another? I know, water for you, Mamma, with or without ice?”
That’s it. Stay safe, and don’t forget to check out the other Tuesday Tales.
Good morning. I trust you all had a wonderful weekend. As we start the second week of the blog challenge. It seems as if Mother Nature will cut us some slack this week with warmth and sunshine in the forecast, something I know I can certainly use.
Today’s letter is H, and I’m going to talk a bit about the obvious, heroes and heroines. I prefer to create what I consider human characters, the ones with imperfections and insecurities, some with physical disabilities, others with emotional ones. Why? Because humans aren’t perfect. They make mistakes and errors in judgement like everyone else. In short, in their search to find that perfect love, their soulmate, they’ll react to the situations around them and to the circumstances that they are dealing with, sometimes misunderstanding and misinterpreting what their opposite has said and done, often jumping to the wrong conclusion. That usually leads to conflict and then the resolution we need.
Let’s start with the typical male hero. Let’s face it. Readers don’t want to read a romance about someone living paycheck to paycheck, never getting anywhere. For too many, that’s their reality. Reading a romance is supposed to carry them off for a few hours of entertainment.
So, our hero will usually be rich, handsome, and available. He’ll be kind and caring, a skilled lover, although I rarely have many sex scenes in my books. That particular act is one I tend to keep behind closed doors. But, my hero will also be insecure about something, and that something will affect how he interacts and responds to the heroine. Perhaps he’s afraid that his money or his title will define him in the eyes of the women in his life. Maybe he’s been injured, or disfigured some way. Perhaps he has a secret that once revealed will change the way others see him. Whatever it is, he’s vulnerable, and it’s baring that vulnerability that endears him to the reader.
The same can be said about the heroine. She will be attractive, sometimes rich, most often not, and she will be dealing with something that only the hero can help her accomplish. Perhaps it will be a overbearing parent, traditions and responsibilities she can’t shirk, or even the fear of attracting other by what she is rather than who she is. Most often, she’ll have secrets, too and a difficult challenge to overcome. It could be solving a murder, lifting a curse, finding the truth, discovering her past … the possibilities are endless, but while she may be a damsel in distress, she won’t be a wimp about it. She’ll play the hand she’s dealt and hope for the best.
Today is the official release day for my novel, The Regal Rose.
Here’s the blurb.
She’s a princess in distress. He’s her knight in shining armor. Can he rescue her once more? Ten years ago, Princess Anna-Rose fell in love with Trucker, a long-haired, bearded American student backpacking through Europe. Her mother’s sudden illness forced her to leave him without saying goodbye or revealing the truth about her identity. All she has is a dried rose and an emptiness in her heart to prove their relationship ever happened. When her father insists that she choose a husband, she threatens to leave the royal family. Her brother comes to her aid. She has one shot at finding her lost lover. If she fails, she has to select one of the suitors presented to her and wed before the year is out. With the clock ticking, Anna goes to the United States hoping to find Abbot’s Cove and the man she loves. Bryce Bannon, Trucker to his old friends, is the owner, president, and CEO of Bannon Enterprises, a multi-million-dollar, international logistics company. He’s content to control his empire from a distance and maintain the anonymity he gets living on his stud farm along Lake Erie where he raises thoroughbreds and roses. When a snowstorm hits, he goes out to check on his animals and hears a horn wailing in the distance. Despite his aversion to strangers, he can’t let someone freeze to death. Something about the woman he rescues is familiar, but when he recognizes his Rosie, he’s elated—until he discovers her true identity and questions her reason for being there. Will they rekindle the love they had, or will duty pull them apart once more?
Writing this novel was enjoyable as was creating the two slightly dysfunctional main characters. I was able to use some of my personal experience with severe winter weather to show her determination to get to the truth. Creating characters, especially believable heroes and heroines, those the readers can identify and empathize with, is one of the toughest parts of writing any genre, but especially romance where connecting one with the other is the key element of the plot.
The Regal Rose is available in e-book format from all Amazon dealers and is free to read in Kindle Unlimited. https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BSB6QBC2
In 2020, when Easter came around, we were all stuck inside our own little bubbles as people were told not to socialize with others. My daughter and grandkids surprised us with bunny beers, cars, and handmade decorations. I kept the empty cans as a reminder that there was a light at the end of the tunnel.
It’s been a few difficult years and the virus may no longer be as deadly as it was, but it isn’t gone, as those who’ve been unlucky enough to get sick know. Thanks to the extraordinary efforts of researchers, we have a vaccine, one that has prevented me from getting deathly ill.
This year, we’ll be having a traditional Easter dinner with Greek salad, roasted leg of lamb, Greek potatoes, peas, carrots, dinner rolls, and desserts. I look forward to being together as a family and wish you all a good Sunday whether you celebrate the feast or not.
Good morning. Well, the sun is shining, and it looks to be a good day. Not too warm, but it isn’t cold either, and there’s no snow or ice, so I’ll take the win.
This morning, I’m solidly back in a Did You Know? based on my writing. Today, I’m dealing with the letter G. The topic I’ve chosen to discuss is genre and subgenre.
Essentially, a genre is a particular type of literature, painting, music, film, or other art form which people consider as a class because it has special characteristics. In writing, a genre is made up of four parts: character, story, plot, and setting.
When it comes to the romance genre, the novel’s primary focus should be on the relationship and romantic love between two people, and end in an emotionally satisfying and optimistic way, the happily ever after. There should be obstacles tossed in the way before the characters can reach their resolution. Is there a perfect formula that works every time? If there is, I haven’t found it yet, but I’ll keep searching. Readers all have different needs and what may appeal to one, won’t appeal to another.
Before I started my journey as an author, I’d devoured thousands of books over the years. I knew what I enjoyed–and what I didn’t–so, when I decided to try my hand at it, I started with romance/suspense. I liked juggling more than just romance in a story, and the idea of a truly evil someone in the background doing unspeakable things that are actually far too common these days appealed to me. After all, those were the types of television shows and movies I enjoyed.
Since I began my career, I’ve branched out, expanded my repertoire if you like, and I’ve written novels in several subgenres. This can be both good and bad since I’ve opted to write all of my books using the same pen name. I know many authors who write different subgenres under different names so that their fan base knows exactly what the next book will bring. Should I have done that? I don’t know, but it’s too late to change now.
Other than regular romance, I’ve chosen to write in the following subgenres: romantic suspense, romantic thrillers, historical romance, paranormal romance, paranormal suspense, psychic romance, romantic comedy, holiday themed romance, women’s fiction, Y A romance suspense, and I even have on Christian romance suspense out there. But no matter the subgenre, all the stories have happy endings and good always triumphs over evil. Hey, I’m an optimist.
So, how do I decide what to write next? The genre or subgenre I’ll use with depend on my mood, my inspiration, and what subgenre is needed for the writing group I’m involved with. The Authors Billboard provides a wide range of romance novels in almost every subgenre. They carry book bundles as low as 99 cents USD, free books, audiobooks, and many other perks for both authors and readers. Check them out for yourselves. https://authorsbillboard.com/ The daily blog posts cover a wide variety of topics, and the weekly newsletter each Friday is filled with good deals. Best of all the advertising platform is available and open to all authors.
When I was down in the Caribbean on a cruise, I toured a number of islands and was fascinated by the history and the skeletal remnants of their difficult pasts, no matter which country chose to enslave and colonize them. After I returned, I wrote Twist of Fate.
Here’s the blurb:
Can a cursed treasure unite two lonely outcasts?
Overton Stafford, shunned by his family because of a birthmark on his face, made a life for himself as Second Mate on The Golden Fleece. In a battle with pirates, Overton loses his left arm, ending his career. Knowing he will be a wealthy man makes the pain easier to bear, especially when he discovers he can repay a moral debt and help an old friend. When he meets Anna, Overton realizes he wants more from her than a financial partnership.
Anneliese Van Stubel lost her sight at nine as a result of Smallpox. Now eighteen, a ward of the crown because of the Danish Age of Majority law, she lives in limbo, uncertain what will happen to her. When Overton approaches her with the proposition to help her rebuild the plantation, she’s excited with the idea of returning to her home. But her joy fades when her caregiver makes it plain that he has a different future in mind for her, one that will profit him.
Set in a time when brutality against women and slaves was the norm, Overton seeks to change things as he falls in love with the girl who has lost so much. Check out the free preview.
Good morning. I’m stepping away from my Did You Know? for a moment to give those of you who don’t live in this area a few pictures of what Wednesday was like here. The first picture was taken about two hours into the storm. The two at the bottom show the willow tree in my yard bowed so low that it kisses the ground. The last picture is the willow Thursday morning. Sadly, it will have to come down.
This final picture was taken by my sister of her deck and her table with its tablecloth of ice. It actually looks pretty in an eerie way.
Mother Nature has been throwing a lot of really ugly weather at us recently. We’ve seen brutal tornadoes, snowstorms, ice storms, earthquakes, volcanic eruptions … you name it. How does freakish weather help me as a writer? It helps make descriptions more realistic, thus immersing the reader in the situation.
Today’s Did You Know focuses on the letter F and how something like a freezing rainstorm and a frozen landscape can enhance your writing. Many of my readers have commented on the realism in my descriptions. I’ve often been told that reading one of my books is like being there. There’s actually a really good reason for that. In many cases, I’ve been there and seen the places for myself or lived through the experience. If I didn’t live through it, then I research extensively, find interviews with survivors and authentic news reports on the subject. Of course, living in my little sector of Canada, I’m exposed to some fairly brutal winter weather. Living where I do, I set a lot of my books during the winter. Most recently, those settings have been snowstorms, but I foresee an ice storm in some book this year.
In my novel, No Good Deed, from the Vengeance is Mine series, the story starts with my heroine navigating her way through a snowstorm.
Vengeance is Mine
Take a peek:
Late April
Alexa O’Brien white-knuckled the steering wheel, her foot barely touching the accelerator as she followed the taillights of the pickup truck ahead of her. She didn’t dare stay any farther back. If she did, she wouldn’t see the guiding lights at all and would end up in the ditch. Of course, if the truck went off the road, she would be up Shit Creek without a paddle.
She snorted, fluttering her lips. “Damn you, Mother Nature. You’re supposed to be on my side.”
The tires on the old wreck she’d bought were almost as bald as her stepfather had been. What a lecture he would give her if he could see her now. Another man who’d claimed he knew what was best for her. In this case, he was probably right, but he’d been wrong too many times to count. It was her life—her mistakes to make—and while some of them had been doozies, she’d taken control once more.
Pray God she didn’t have to brake suddenly.
She’d planned her escape so carefully, timed it to coincide with Richard’s trip to Africa, and now this. Where the hell had a foot of snow come from? It was the end of April. Even in Canada, that meant spring, or at least it had in the past before climate change had become a real and terrifying fact of life.
The distance between her car and the vehicle ahead shortened. Alexa eased up on the accelerator. What was she doing? Twenty miles per hour? Maybe twenty-five?
The lights ahead turned a deeper red. She was coming up on the truck too fast.
“Holy shit!”
She moved her foot from the gas pedal to the brake, pumping the pedal twice, but it didn’t help. She screeched. Like Bambi on ice, the car swerved, spun around twice, and then skidded to the right. Time stood still—the car didn’t.
Think, Alexa, think. What did you learn in that damn defensive driving course?
Heart pounding, stomach roiling, she took her foot off the brake and slowly turned the steering wheel until the tires of the car pointed into the skid, praying the damn things would grip.
Donuts in a parking lot were one thing, but they weren’t quite so much fun at night, on an unfamiliar road, during a frigging snowstorm.
She trembled, holding the steering wheel so tightly she was sure her fingerprints were embedded in the plastic. All she could see were the trees coming at her, but ever so slightly, the car slowed, straightened to face the direction she wanted it to, and stopped less than three feet from the pickup’s tailgate.
Her heart thundered in her ears, and she exhaled heavily. While she wasn’t directly behind the small truck, she was back on the road, no worse for the wear, even if she did feel like a cat who’d just lost another life. Shaking so badly that she had trouble shifting the car into park, she rested her forehead against the steering wheel, waiting for her heart to slow.
Someone tapped on her window, and she jumped.
Who the hell would be walking on the road in this weather?
A second tap, harder and more urgent than before, gave her no choice. Scraping away the frost on the inside of the window, she was blinded by the sudden brief flash of light in her face. Bile rose in her throat, and her heart resumed its frantic pace. Hand trembling, she rolled down the window.
“Excusez-moi, mais le 30 est fermé. Tu dois rester sur the 20.”
“I … I don’t speak French,” Alexa stammered to the police officer.
“There has been an accident,” the woman said, her th sounding like d. “This highway, it’s closed. Turn right at my car and follow the 20 through Dorion. There’s a motel along that road. Not a good night to drive.”
“Thank you. I’d sort of figured that out for myself.” Alexa rolled up the window once more, taking two deep breaths to calm herself before putting the car in gear and slowly inching along behind the truck.
There is nothing like experience to help with description. You only have to be caught in one of these once to remember. Sadly, it’s almost an annual thing.
Welcome back! This year I’ve chosen Did You Know? as my theme, giving you a look at some of the things I’ve learned over the years as an author.
Today’s Did You Know is all about endings. It’s a fact that everything you start has to end and as vital as a good beginning is, a good ending can make or break a book. Here are what I consider my rules for ending my books:
Know your ending before you start writing. I may be a pantser, working without an outline, but I do know how the story will end.
Build tension in the leadup to the end. While I should know how the story will end, the reader shouldn’t. So, to that end, I will add complications, many of which will be red herrings to keep the reader guessing.
Try different endings on for size. I have done this a couple of times. While I found the ending to the original version of Fire Angel, did wrap up the story, I didn’t find it satisfying, so when I got the chance to edit and release the book on my own, I changed the ending.
Leave room for interpretation. This is especially important if you are considering writing a sequel to a book, or if the story is one that continues. In my Harvester Series, the ultimate plot isn’t resolved until the fourth book, The White Dahlia, but in each of the four books, the romance plot as well as that segment of the main plot is resolved. While each book can stand alone, they should still be read in order.
Ensure that your ending makes sense. Nothing annoys me more than reading a book where the ending seemed contrived and leaves me hanging with that What the hell? feeling.
Evoke emotions. In every book I write, it’s important to me that the reader can identify with the main characters. I like to think that the ending makes the reader smile and gives them a sense of satisfaction. I may toss in an epilogue to peek at the future, but overall, I want to reader to be satisfied.
Make sure your ending resolves the storyline. Have you ever seen National Lampoon’s Vacation? There’s a scene where he ties the dog to the bumper when they stop. A few scenes later, the leash and collar are still tied to the car, but there’s no sign of the dog. That has been my mantra as a writer. Don’t leave the dog tied to the car and drive off. If you add an issue, you have to resolve it. In other words. This is your gift to the world. Wrap it up nicely and tie it up with a bow.
Here it is. April. One quarter of 2023 is already behind us. Time seems to fly these days, or perhaps, I’m just getting slower. We’ll be celebrating Easter this weekend, and I still have some of my outdoor Christmas decorations out–frozen in the ground. Time waits for no one but Mother Nature. Bits of green have poked their noses out in my flowerbeds, but I don’t expect to see anything bloom for some time to come, unlike last year when everything was up weeks ahead of schedule. Unfortunately, early to bloom meant early to die, so by mid-August, I was cleaning out the beds for winter. Perhaps things will be more ‘normal’ this year.
This month’s question is an interesting one for me as I mark my ten-year anniversary as a published author. It’s hard to believe so much time has passed, and yet it feels like only yesterday.
April 5 question – Do you remember writing your first book? What were your thoughts about a career path on writing? Where are you now, and how is it working out for you? If you’re at the start of the journey, what are your goals?
This is an intriguing question The first book I wrote was for a writing class ten years before I actually realized that I could in fact achieve my dream of becoming a published author. That manuscript sits on my desktop in a folder entitled. In Process. It’s the only ‘complete’ manuscript in the file, but perhaps complete is a misnomer. Once of these days, I may even revise and publish it. I got top marks in the course, and the people who read it all loved it, but for the life of me, I can’t imagine why. The plot is adequate, although there are a few holes the size of the Grand Canyon in it, but it’s still quite viable since it was a fantasy dealing with fairies, crop circles, and Stonehenge, a place I’ll be seeing for myself, in person, come July.
The issues are in the writing. Point of View couldn’t have been a big deal for the professor since she ignored the incredible amount of head hopping I did–and not just head hopping. I have talking heads all over the place! There have to be at least two dozen different characters with POV, something that might’ve worked for Tolkien and Dostoyevsky, but isn’t quite as popular today when the omniscient POV isn’t as popular. I have a couple of books where I have three POVs and some readers have difficulty with that.
But writing that book did whet my appetite for more. I wrote a few short stories and some non-fiction before retiring from teaching. That was when I decided to try and write a book of my own. I did. I submitted it to a publisher, and it sold. That was 44 books ago. I now chose to self-publish and continue to put out books on a regular basis. In 2022, I wrote five new ones and in 2023, I already have 2 to be released next month, one almost finished, and I hope to finish at least 3 more before the end of the year. Lofty ambitions.
I enjoy writing. The books I write cover differnt genres depending on the mood I’m in. I’m not getting rich by any means–I don’t have the capital to invest in the kind of promtion needed for that, but on the whole I’m satisfied.
Welcome back. Believe it or not, it’s a balmy 8 degrees Celsius (48 F) and sunny, but we are under the threat of a freezing rain episode later tonight and tomorrow, so I’m putting this together and getting it ready to fly into cyberspace a day early. Even if I lose power, the blog will be out there. My theme this year is Did You Know? and it’s a series of bits of knowledge I’ve gleaned over the ten years I’ve been a published author.
Today’s Did You Know involves the letter D and deals with DNA. Deoxyribonucleic acid (DNA) is the molecule that carries genetic information for the development and functioning of an organism. DNA is made of two linked strands that wind around each other to resemble a twisted ladder — a shape known as a double helix. It controls absolutely everything about who you are as a person, your appearance, your health, even whether or not you like certain foods. As you may recall in my first post, in order for you to exist, DNA from your mother’s egg (23 chromosomes) had to combine with DNA from your father’s sperm (23 chromosomes) to make you (46 chromosomes.) But those 46 chromosomes can be vastly different from one person to the next.
You would’ve learned some of this in science class as I did way back in the sixties when we learned the Mendel’s four postulates and laws of inheritance are: (1) Principles of Paired Factors (2) Principle of Dominance (3) Law of Segregation or Law of Purity of Gametes (Mendel’s First Law of Inheritance) and (4) Law of Independent Assortment (Mendel’s Second Law of Inheritance).
My science teacher had explained it with blue-eyed and brown eyes parents, which is why, having brown eyes and my husband having blue ones, I would’ve expected at least one of my three children to have brown eyes, since brown is a dominant gene. Not so. Not only are my three all blue eyed, my sister’s children with the same brown/blue ratio that I have also only had blue eyed children.
He never mentioned that other generations might get into the mix, and though while my eyes were brown, my father’s were blue. Thanks to my own research, I know that it isn’t as simple as the tall plants and short plants were. Every now and then, the ancestors get into the mix.
Simplified to the max, the explanation goes something like this. Each cell in the human body contains a nucleus filled with thread-like structures called chromosomes. Each chromosome is made up of DNA tightly coiled many times around proteins called histones that support its structure. A gene is the basic physical and functional unit of heredity, and those genes are made up of DNA. Those gene cells form a genome that makes us human.
As much as it pains me to admit it, human DNA is not 100 percent unique. In fact, the human genome is mostly the same in all people, but there are variations across the genome. This genetic variation accounts for about 0.001 percent of each person’s DNA and explains why we are all slightly different in appearance and health factors. The only people with the same DNA are identical twins.
Can you change your DNA? The short answer is not you personally, but Genome editing is a method for making specific changes to the DNA of a cell or organism. It can be used to add, remove, or alter DNA in the genome. Human genome editing technologies can be used on somatic cells (non-heritable), germline cells (not for reproduction) and germline cells (for reproduction).
Is gene editing safe?
The earliest studies showed that gene therapy could have very serious health risks, such as toxicity, inflammation, and cancer. Since then, researchers have studied the mechanisms and developed improved techniques that are less likely to cause dangerous immune reactions or cancer.
How much does gene editing cost?
Cell and gene therapies are expensive. Analysis by the Institute for Clinical and Economic Review (ICER) suggests the average cost of a gene therapy is between $1 million and $2 million per dose.
So, obviously, most of us will have to get by with the genes we have. For better or worse, you and your DNA are set for life.
Today, modern policing relies heavily on DNA evidence, especially in rape and murder cases. In the first book of my Harvester Series, The White Carnation, the police use DNA to identify a serial killer bent on creating his own dynasty. He selects the women, impregnates them, and after they’ve given birth, he kills them and discards the bodies since he no longer needs them.
Here’s the blurb:
He’s watching, waiting… The last person disgraced reporter Faye Lewis wants back in her life is Detective Rob Halliday, her former fiancé, the man she blames for ruining her career and breaking her heart. But when she discovers her best friend’s mother murdered, she doesn’t hesitate to call him. Breaking up with Faye after she unjustly accused him of sabotaging her career was a crippling personal blow for Rob, but he coped by burying himself in his work. For the past year, his team has been hunting the Harvester, a serial killer who ritualistically murders new mothers and vanishes with their infants. What Rob doesn’t need is another case, especially one involving his ex-fiancée. But, when the killer’s newest victim resembles Faye, all bets are off. When Faye is assaulted in her own apartment, Rob realizes that not only are these cases connected, but Faye may also be the key to finding the elusive killer, providing Rob can keep her out of the maniac’s hands. Realizing her vulnerability, Faye agrees to set aside their past to work the case together, but the more they investigate, the more complex the situation becomes. The mad man has an agenda, one that involves Faye. Can they catch the Harvester before he finds Faye and reaps another prize?
Living the Dream 