Working your Blog Tour

September 27, 2016 / Marcia Meara / 3 Comments

Once again, another very helpful and informative post from Story Empire. Ever wanted to schedule a blog tour, but had no clue where to begin or what to expect? Coldhandboyack’s post will help!

Story Empire

Craig here again. Today I want to talk about taking your book out on a blog tour. This is a great way to expose your product to new readers.

Blog tours come in many formats, and I’ve done several kinds. These include a cover and excerpt, cover and blurb, and we might as well include email blasts in this list too. Today, I’m going to focus on the “friends and family” plan. I promoted a book priced at 99¢. With a 35¢ royalty, how many copies would I have to move to pay for a $75 blog tour? Friends welcome you to their blog without having to pay. Be willing to host them when the time comes.

I recently finished a tour involving my friends hosting me at their blogs. It was simple enough to set up. I posted a request for hosts to help me out. I wound up…

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#ExcerptWeek – THE PRINCE’S SON by Deborah Jay #EpicFantasy

September 26, 2016September 30, 2016 / Deborah Jay / Debby Lush / 22 Comments

For excerpt week, I’ve decided to share a final sneak peek at book #2 in The Five Kingdoms series before I release it early November – yay!

And here, for the first time anywhere, is the beautiful cover…

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Here’s the blurb:

Nessa Haddo has been raised to seek what every well-bred young lady desires: a suitable husband. Unfortunately, as a younger twin in a land where superstition deems her cursed, that dream seems unattainable. When she sets her sights on the handsome foreign envoy sent to escort her sister to an arranged marriage, Nessa’s romantic fantasies entangle her in events beyond her darkest nightmares.

Compared to his last escapade, ex-spy Rustam Chalice’s commission sounds simple: wrangle an unwieldy bridal caravan across a mountain range populated by bandits, trolls, werecats and worse, try to cajole a traumatized princess out of her self-imposed isolation, and arrive on time for the politically sensitive wedding.

Meanwhile, Rustam’s former covert partner, Lady Risada, finally has what she needs, though not what – or who – she wants. Struggling to adjust to life outside the game, all her carefully honed assassin’s instincts are screaming warnings of foul play, yet she can find nothing obviously amiss.

And deep in the halls of a mountain clan, an old enemy plucks his victim’s strings with expert malice.

Now for the excerpt:

(To put this into context, Risada is heavily pregnant at the time of this incident. Oh, and it’s UK spelling.)

Small tapping sounds drew Risada’s attention back to the stairwell. About two thirds of the way up, the crouched figure was driving something into the wall. Without fully straightening, he moved across to the spindle opposite and wrapped something around it before tugging it taught.

“You promised no one would get hurt!” Bel protested. “If they trip over that they might break their necks!”

“That, my sweet Bel, is the idea.”

Risada’s maid took a step back, and although she faced away from the corner where her employer hid, her horrified comprehension radiated from her stiffened back all the way down to her shaking knees.

“And now, dear Bel, it’s time for your reward.”

Bel turned and fled, straight towards the entrance beside Risada’s hiding place. Risada caught the glint of steel in the assassin’s hand and barely stopping to think, thrust out a foot and tripped the running girl. A hefty dagger whistled through the space where Bel’s torso had been a moment before. Bel squealed and scrabbled along the ground, stumbling to her feet as she vanished around the corner.

Risada peeked around the shoulder of the statue shielding her, and her eyes met those of the man on the stair. He shrugged. “Oh well, this wasn’t how it was supposed to happen, but I suppose it will do as well.”

Lowering her estimation of her opponent’s professionalism for wasting time on speech, Risada slipped her small dagger from its concealed sheath beneath her breast, and assessed the situation. Screaming for help would do nothing. As Bel had stated earlier, the guards were all outside at this time of night, and the bedrooms were towards the back of the house, so too far away for anyone to hear. Bel had vanished, but whether she would raise the alarm was doubtful; she would probably think only of herself. Risada’s sole weapon was her small dagger, and she was hardly in peak physical shape for this sort of work.

On the other hand, as she watched the cocky son-of-a-whore swaggering down the staircase towards her, she realised she still possessed an element of surprise. He clearly had no idea she, like him, was a trained assassin.

“Please,” she added a small quaver to her entreaty. “You don’t have to do this.” Continue reading →

#MondayMeme #MondayBlogs

September 26, 2016 / Marcia Meara / 2 Comments

This says it pretty well, I think.
Something to remember.

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#ExcerptWeek – Austin Crawley @AustinOCrawley

September 26, 2016September 25, 2016 / Marcia Meara / 18 Comments

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Today’s excerpt is from horror writer, Austin Crawley. Austin, welcome to The Write Stuff. We’re ready to be scared, so take it away!

~~~

Snippets from Letters To The Damned

From Chapter One:

Cris drifted between waking and sleeping, his dream images of his wife, Shannon, already lost in half remembered impressions and the haze of another dream world involving a strange, English village, like the ones on Shannon’s favorite calendar. The foreign imagery faded and Cris felt consciousness begin to win the struggle. He rolled over to the edge of his comfortable double bed to reach towards the floor where he had heard scuffling noises. He expected to feel his fingers stroking the soft fur of his little tortoiseshell cat, Mocha, but instead a strange hand clasped his own in an iron grip.

He instinctively pulled back, but the hand wouldn’t let go. Cris tried to force open his eyes, to reach full consciousness, but his eyelids would not respond. He heard his own sharp, gasping breaths in the darkness. His mind tried to make sense of the thought that a hand had come from the floor, perhaps someone under the bed? Cris struggled with rising terror and a feeling of vulnerability when his body failed to respond to his conscious commands to open his eyes. He wanted to scream, but his voice would not respond.

Chapter Three:

“A freshly disturbed soul might not be amenable to performing supernatural tasks.” The dowdy teashop owner with a lazy, northern English accent looked at Cris as if he had used the wrong spoon to stir his Earl Grey tea.

Suddenly he regretted having told her about his wife’s accident. Cris hadn’t come to England to try to raise the dead, after all. He had only wanted to get away for a while, to forget the bustle of Los Angeles and spend a few days somewhere quiet where he might collect his thoughts. He watched the unpretentious swishing of the teashop owner’s faded flowered dress as she walked back behind the counter to make his sandwich and reflected on how the conversation had turned suddenly to the thoughts he had refused to voice to himself.

Later:

He glanced up at the picture over the desk, the ship out in a stormy sea, and he wondered why someone would paint a ship in such difficult circumstances when they might have shown it at full sail on a pleasant day. If they had wanted to capture the wildness of the sea during a storm, they could have painted a stormy seascape with waves crashing onto a rocky coast.

Cris’ gaze wandered over the picture and he began to feel a sense of swaying, which he dismissed as an effect of the movement of his eyes from an odd angle to the painting. He began to appreciate the realism of the artist and could almost feel the salt spray as waves crashed over the side of the ship. He could hear men shouting orders and feel the burn of a rope held tightly by a man balanced precariously on the main mast yardarm.

The swell of the next wave tipped the boat to a forty-five degree angle and he felt his feet slipping from the yardarm, the rope tearing skin in bloody patches on the palms of his hands, then falling, falling…

~~~

Austin Crawley . . . I Think?

Austin Crawley is a civil engineer who has written stories for more than ten years, usually involving ghosts, demons or spirits in some form. He has a Christmas book in publication called A Christmas Tale, based on the ghosts from Dickens’ A Christmas Carol and currently has a Horror story on special price pre-order for October 1st release, Letters To The Damned.

He lives with his wife and three children, as well as a menagerie of outlandish creatures generally referred to as ‘pets’.

Buy Austin’s Book Here: Letters to the Damned

Find Austin on Social Media Here:
Blog: https://austincrawleyblog.wordpress.com/
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/Austin-Crawley-687952104674224
Twitter: https://twitter.com/austinocrawley
Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/14211612.Austin_Crawley

#WakeRobinRidge @marciameara $.99 Now! #SundayBlogShare

September 25, 2016 / Marcia Meara / 7 Comments

What happens on the Ridge, Stays on the Ridge. (Mostly)

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Just $.99 on Amazon. com
Wake-Robin Ridge Book 1
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#ExcerptWeek – Gateway to Magic by Annabelle Franklin @Anabel1Franklin

September 25, 2016September 24, 2016 / Marcia Meara / 6 Comments

Children’s Fantasy writer, Annabelle Franklin, is our guest today. Welcome to #ExcerptWeek, Annabelle. The floor is yours!

~~~

GATEWAY TO MAGIC: The story of a gaming fanatic trapped in Fairyland where technology is banned by law!

Steven Topcliff hates Fairyland – there are no video games, no chicken nuggets and no one tells the truth. He has to deal with spiteful cousin Tracy, who goads him into activating the interdimensional gateway, Nigel the Nuisance, an out-of-control shapeshifter who insists on being his best mate, and the diva-like Fairy Queen who embroils him in some mysterious game of her own. His only chance of escape is to use magic to forge a gateway back to Earth.

There’s no controlling this dimension with a console – Steven must use his own ingenuity to survive and get himself home. But can he believe in himself enough to do it?

Excerpt

Close up, the stone looked more like solidified fungus than rock, and the red plastic button seemed out of place on top of it. The whole thing had a feeling of wrongness, as if it didn’t belong there. The smell in the clearing had got much worse; it really was a dogs’ toilet.

Steven crouched down so he could read the words on the front of the stone:

DO NOT PRESS THIS BUTTON

‘There, we’ve looked,’ he said. ‘It’s just an ordinary stone with a plastic button on it.’

Tracy rolled her eyes. ‘Do ordinary stones usually have plastic buttons on them?’

‘They do if they’re bits of scenery left over from a TV show.’

Tracy crouched next to him. ‘Press it, then.’

‘What?’

‘Press the button and see what happens.’

Steven didn’t move. He felt hot, tired and sick; all his senses were telling him to run for his life, but his feet seemed to be glued to the ground.

‘There’s no need to be scared,’ Tracy went on. ‘If it’s just a bit of old scenery, like you say, nothing will happen, will it?’

That word again. ‘You’re the one who’s scared,’ he said. ‘Otherwise you’d press it yourself. You’re scared to press it, because it tells you not to.’

‘There’s no point me pressing it. You can only go to Fairyland once, and I’ve been already.’ She stood up and brushed leaf mould off her hands. ‘Anyway, it only tells you not to press it so you will.’

‘What?’ He turned his head to look at her. ‘That doesn’t make sense.’

‘Yes it does. It’s like those signs that tell you not to walk on the grass – you just want to do it all the more.’

She had a point.

‘I wish I could go back,’ she sighed. ‘Fairyland is awesome! It’s not the girly sort of place you read about in the kiddy books; it’s so wonderful and exciting, I can’t even describe it.’

‘You can’t describe it because you haven’t been there.’

Tracy crouched down next to him again. ‘Just think, Steven,’ she said softly. ‘If you went there, you wouldn’t be around when the holidays are over. You wouldn’t have to go to that horrid big school you’re so scared of.’

Steven felt like she’d punched him in the stomach. ‘How did you – ’ he began, then caught himself. ‘I’m not scared of going to Comp!’

‘Oh yes you are,’ the soft voice went on. ‘There’s so much to be scared of, isn’t there? Strict teachers and harsh punishments. Being late for lessons because you can’t find your way around all those corridors. Tonnes of homework. And worst of all, the bullies. Big boys and girls, flushing your head down the toilet in break and waiting for you outside the gates after school. Kids with knives – ’

‘Shut up,’ hissed Steven. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’

Tracy just kept smiling smugly, and at that moment Steven hated her more than he’d ever hated anyone in his life. He didn’t want to think about Comp; with the whole summer stretching before him, he’d managed to put it out of his mind, and that was where he wanted it to stay.

But Tracy had other ideas. ‘Let’s face it, you won’t stand a chance. You’re exactly the sort of boy that bullies love to pick on.’ She put on a mocking baby-voice. ‘A mummy’s boy who never goes out of the house, who’s too scared to press an itty-bitty little red button.’Steven felt like he was going to explode. He wanted to punch Tracy on the nose; but he wasn’t the sort of boy who hit girls, so he punched the stone instead.

Right on the red button.

Annabelle Franklin lives on South Wales’s stunning and magical South Gower coast, sharing her chalet home with two rescued sighthounds. As well as two children’s novels, Gateway to Magic and The Slapstyx, she has written a short story Mercy Dog which appears in Unforgotten (Accent Press), an award-winning anthology themed around WW1. Another short story Haunted by the Future will feature in Dark Gathering, a horror anthology due for publication later in 2016.

Annabelle loves humour, hates housework and believes magic should be on the school curriculum. She is currently working on a series of supernatural stories for children.

Where to Buy

Gateway to Magic on Amazon http://myBook.to/Gateway2Magic
Smashwords http://bit.ly/1j3wjfw
Apple http://apple.co/1Q3NrjX
Kobo http://bit.ly/1UW13fe
Nook http://bit.ly/1K6IkNE

Connect with Annabelle:

Blog http://annabellefranklinauthor.wordpress.com/about
Facebook https://www.facebook.com/pages/Annabelle-Franklin-Author/1474449249481609
Twitter https://twitter.com/Anabel1Franklin
Goodreads https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6904737.Annabelle_Franklin
Email ankhana2000@yahoo.com

#ExcerptWeek – Gerald W. Darnell

September 24, 2016September 27, 2016 / Gerald W Darnell / 7 Comments

From my latest Carson Reno Mystery Series novel ‘Deadly Decision’

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Let me set this up for you. Carson has traveled to a remote fishing camp located on the Tennessee River called Harmon’s Creek.

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But before he can chase the bad guy, he must deal with the old man that runs the bait shop. I hope you enjoy this humorous exchange between Carson and the old man who doesn’t hear too well.

________________________________________________________________

There was only one car parked at Harmon’s Creek Country Store when I drove past, a black 1962 Dodge with a Shelby County license plate. I made the left turn and continued up the shallow hill toward Harmon’s Creek.

After parking the Ford in a spot marked ‘Visitors’, I stood in the grass for a moment looking at my surroundings. A narrow foot path led off to my left and up a small incline; at the top of the hill were three weathered cabins – all identical. Standing in front of me was a small grey building next to the river, and several green aluminum boats resting upside down in the grass. Beyond the boats was a well-used gravel launching ramp connected to the water. A sign hanging across the front entrance of the grey building read: Bait, Boats and Boarding. I walked onto the slim porch, opened the wooden framed screen door and stepped inside.

Air in the large, cluttered room was stuffy but surprisingly comfortable, helped along by two giant ceiling fans turning slowly, but consistently. Two of the three walls I could see were lined with heads and bodies of long-ago departed animals; their petrified remains on display for the enjoyment or admiration of visitors to Harmon’s Creek Fish Camp. Deer with large antlers, Bobcats showing sharp teeth, wild hogs, oversized large mouth Bass, and even a turkey in flight gave the room an odd aura – more like a museum rather than a bait shop. I assumed the dead fish and animals were intended to represent what the successful hunter or fisherman could expect from their visit. However, the prey I expected from my visit to Harmon’s Creek would be different; quite different.

Light for the dark room came mostly from outside, with just a single lamp burning somewhere in a far corner – I couldn’t see the source. Several large windows surrounded most of the building, and an open screen porch next to the river provided an almost natural atmosphere to a room crowded with dead animals and dusty fishing gear. Continue reading →

#ExcerptWeek – Bill Engleson @billmelaterplea

September 24, 2016September 27, 2016 / Marcia Meara / 7 Comments

Starting off #ExcerptWeek for us this time around is novelist and essayist, Bill Engleson, with a very funny essay on–of all things–turnips! Welcome, Bill, and thanks for sharing with us today.

~~~

Turnip Love

“A degenerate nobleman is like a turnip. There is nothing good of him but that which is underground.” 17^th century saying.

      There are so many issues aflutter in the world today that even I, a practitioner of tangential thought, am shocked and embarrassed that I am taking the time to ruminate on the lowly turnip. Earthquakes, hurricanes, floods and war occupy the airwaves. I follow all of their ramifications religiously, never wavering from the belief that one has a responsibility to remain current. These events are often overwhelming; they are frequently of catastrophic size. Certainly this past year has witnessed the giant tsunami that steamrolled the Far East and Hurricane Katrina that sank New Orleans, not to mention the massive earthquake along the Pakistan border whose toll, at this writing, can only increase.
      But to cope with the monumental hugeness of nature and man run ferociously amuck, I have to seek out smaller issues, tinier morsels of potentially digestible material.
      Hence, the story of my life and how it collided with The TURNIP.

“The candle in that great turnip has gone out.” Winston Churchill, commenting on the passing of conservative politician, Stanley Baldwin

       Growing up, my diet was a simple affair. Both of my parents had humble origins and even humbler palates. Meat and potatoes, potatoes and meat were the order of pretty much every day. These staples would often be supplemented by plain salads and boiled, sopping wet vegetables. My father, manly in ways I would never be, rarely cooked, and my mother resisted kitchen captivity except when domestically unavoidable. While I never thought of her as a stellar cook, she could whip up a fried or boiled dinner with the aplomb of a third world street vendor.
       Even under these adverse conditions, my appetite was not intimidated. I was not a finicky eater. While I may not have wanted to chow down with others as regularly as my family expected, displaying an early antisocial bent I am still troubled by, once settled in at my eating stall, I rarely left any food on the plate. That really was the key dining rule in our home: “Finish your plate before you leave the table, Willy,” was a frequent refrain from my pop. Food was not to be wasted.
      Often I would have hoovered my food down and be ready to leave the table before my mother even had a chance to join us. Clearly I was a rude little bugger, an observation my father would frequently make. He would say, “You’re a rude little bugger, isn’t he Marion?” And my mother would say, “Isn’t he what, Sterling?” And he would answer, “Isn’t he a rude little bugger? He doesn’t even have the decency to wait until you sit down.” And she would refrain, “Let the boy eat, Sterling. Can’t you see he’s hungry?”
      By the time my father had made his initial observation, he was half way through his first helping. He was a hefty man, setting an unavoidable standard for me, I’m afraid. He demonstrated his love for my mother, amongst other ways, by courageously seeking out seconds of her cooking at every turn. No matter what she prepared, he christened it “delicious, darling.” My mother would invariably look at him in adoration, turn back to what was occupying her on the stove and parry his praise with “you’re a fibber, you are. A woman can`t believe a word you say. You’d eat an old leather shoe if I cooked it just right.” She knew my father’s love was, in part, measured by food consumption and the absolute pleasure he found in eating.
      I didn`t really know it then but my mother found equal pleasure in simply having enough to cook. Simply having enough was such a joy for her. Growing up, there was often little or nothing to eat, except what the surrounding countryside and family garden could provide. She was raised on a small scrub farm in the shadow of the Rockies. Her parents were the children of farmers and grew what their ancestors grew; root vegetables. Parsnips and turnips headed the list. My mother was raised on a diet of rogue weed vegetables, heavily supplemented by roots. This Spartan lifestyle strongly influenced her culinary routine.
Continue reading →

Jumpstarting #ExcerptWeek #FindingHunter @marciameara

September 23, 2016 / Marcia Meara / 19 Comments

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Tomorrow is the first day of #ExcerptWeek, and I thought I’d get a jump on it by sharing one of my own excerpts today, thus keeping it out of the way of all the others that will be forthcoming.

Filled with guilt and despair as the result of a terribly tragedy, Hunter Painter has disappeared. No one in the little town of Riverbend has any idea where he’s gone, but most fear the worst. Only Willow Greene, who has loved him for years, still has faith he’ll come home to her again, though his middle brother, Forrest, is trying hard to believe she’s right.

~~~

“Forrest, what was in the box Hunter left with you?”

He gazed at his empty plate. When he looked at her again, his puzzled eyes were dark with sadness. “Things I never knew he had. Family mementos. Photos from vacations. Stuff Jackson an’ I never paid no attention to. I couldn’t believe he’d kept ‘em. Pictures from a trip to Disney when we were kids. The three of us buildin’ a sand castle at New Smyrna Beach. Ticket stubs from concerts. Sea shells, marbles, an old miniature train engine …”

He took a drink of tea, cleared his throat, and went on. “It made me feel sad … an’ sort of ashamed … to see how much value he’d put to memories Jackson an’ I’d taken for granted. Like he didn’t want to let go of those times, while I was rushin’ to get through ‘em, an’ grow up.”

He shook his head, marveling. “Found a couple of things of mine he must have taken out of the trash. I couldn’t believe it. They hadn’t meant anything to me, but Hunter saw something in them. I guess he left ‘em with us, because he knew we were the only ones who would recognize them. Or maybe … maybe he left ‘em so we wouldn’t forget him.”

Willow could picture Hunter carefully rescuing those small bits of his childhood, tucking them away in closets and drawers. Holding on to his memories as hard as he could. A familiar ache wormed its way through her heart as she thought about the little boy who never quite felt like he belonged, but who still wanted tangible evidence that he’d been there—when this thing happened, or this one, or that.

She rose, blinking back sudden tears, and patted Forrest’s shoulder as she passed his chair. “Be back in a minute. I’ve got something to show you.”

When she returned to the kitchen, Forrest jumped to his feet. “Here, let me take that for you.”

“I’ve got it. I’m stronger than I look. But could you move the dishes to the sink to make more room?” She put the oversized basket on the cleared table, then took her seat again.

“What’s all this?”

“This is what Hunter left me. Did you know your brother wrote?”

He looked blank. “Wrote who?”

She sighed. Had no one ever known who Hunter was?

“He wrote, Forrest. Poems, and short stories, and essays. He’s been keeping journals or notebooks since he was a child. They’re filled with beautiful writing. Observations. Descriptions. Words upon words about life, and love, and fear, and loneliness. And he left them all with me.”

Smiling, she ran her fingertips across the soft leather cover of the top journal. “He left you his memories, and he left me his heart. And you and I are going to be the caretakers of both, until he comes home to claim them again.”

~~~

Finding Hunter: Riverbend Book 2

My Inspiration for Hunter Painter