Show, Don’t Tell, on Twitter

March 11, 2015 / Marcia Meara / 4 Comments

A wonderful post to help you get the most out of your Tweets. CLICK-throughs, rather than just Retweets, mean more opportunities for sales. I’ve already been doing some of this, but I’m definitely going to switch over a ton of my scheduled tweets to this method. Give it a look!

Nicholas C. Rossis

From blackberryczech.cz

I have often mentioned the “show, don’t tell” rule in my blog. MMJaye, a regular around here and a great supporter of Indies in her own blog, kindly wrote this guest post for me, tackling the rule from a novel perspective: how to use it when tweeting. Enjoy her excellent post, which, I admit, was an eye-opener for me.

“Show not Tell” on Twitter: a guide to “clickable” tweets

The “show don’t tell” rule has been drummed into every writer’s head. Traditional publishers and editors swear by it. Some Indie authors are less than enthusiastic about it, but, no matter how much you use or respect the rule, you have to admit that it does invest your writing with one major attribute: it becomes evocative.

What surprises me, however, is the fact that although writers accept that “show don’t tell” leads to evocative writing and…

View original post 1,228 more words

Edgelanders Excerpt

March 11, 2015 / Jenny / 2 Comments

Excerpt week is such a great idea! Thank you, Marcia, for nudging me out of my winter cave to join in the fun.

Here’s a snippet from the first book in my Serpent of Time series, Edgelanders, classified within the high fantasy/romance category.

“What are you?” he whispered.

“Looks like a dead girl to me.” Rue’s shadow blocked the light of the moons, fell over the girl and darkened the bright perfection of her face.

“No.” He shook his head, a sweaty wisp of black hair falling into his face. “Not dead.” He’d almost said not a girl, but how could he possibly know that for sure? She smelled human, but there was something else in her blood, something familiar, something savage that whispered words to his soul he couldn’t understand.

Why couldn’t Rue smell it? She was a master huntress, could track a rabbit to its warren from five miles away, but she seemed completely unaffected by the power he could feel in that girl. Rue had known others like that girl, before he was even born. Surely the familiarity of her scent was not lost on his sister’s keen senses.

“Well, she will be soon enough. I can smell death on her. Leave her,” she said. “We need to secure the perimeter. Drive whoever owns that pack of hounds you just tore apart from our lands before they come looking for their dead girl and lay her murder on our doorstep. The last thing we need right now is an inquiry.”

“I won’t leave her here to die,” he refused.

And that was exactly what would happen to her if they just walked away. That beautiful little flower would breathe her last and her pale face would haunt his every moment until the day he died. He couldn’t let that happen. He had to take her home.

“I… I just can’t.”

His hand fell away from her cheek and he tucked it gently behind her neck before sliding it further in to lift her upper body from the mud. He shoved his other arm beneath the backs of her thighs and then heaved her weight against his chest as he rose.

“I’m taking her to Rhiorna. She can heal her.”

“Are you stupid? Wait, don’t answer that,” Rue smirked down at him. “Leave her, Finn. You know the laws. She is an outsider. She has no place here, and if she dies on our land, that is her own fault. Besides, what is that old witch going to do? Nothing. She hasn’t done anything useful since…” Her words faded into the low whisper of the wind, but Finn didn’t wait for her to finish.

“I don’t care about the laws!” he roared. “I’m not leaving her to die.”

“Finn, I can’t let you take her. I’m sorry.”

“I’d like to see you try to stop me.” Shifting her weight against his chest, she felt light as a feather in his arms; her body nestled perfectly against his as if she’d been made to fit in his arms, made to be carried that way by him and only him.

“Finn…”

He was already walking, northwest toward Drekne. He’d gone several paces before his sister’s frantic footsteps quickly fell in behind him. Rue may have been his elder, but she was half his size, and when her hand came down on his shoulder to try and spin him around, he jerked it off and rounded to face her with fire in his eyes.

“Don’t, Rue. Don’t make me do something I’ll regret.”

“What? You’re going to challenge me over some… some stranger? Some half-dead girl? I can’t let you take her into the village. It is forbidden. The council…”

“Damn the council.”

“Damn the council? Damn the council?” She brought her hand down again, gently this time, silent pleading in her bright silver eyes as she tried to sympathize with his plight. “I know you like to rile them up, to get under their skin and show them you’re not a pup to be pushed around anymore, but this… Finn, this is madness. They will put you in silver chains and drag you into exile. Not even Viln will be able to save you this time.”

“I don’t care.”

“You don’t care?” she shrieked. “How can you not care? About your own brother, about me? There will be consequences for this.”

“You wouldn’t understand.” No one would understand; they never did.

“You’re right, I wouldn’t understand. This girl, who is she to you? No one, Finn. A human, a stranger.”

“She’s not human,” he muttered, but Rue hadn’t heard him.

“I will not let you throw away your life here with the pack for some stranger.”

“You can’t stop me,” he shrugged her hand away again. “I’d advise you not to try.”

Edgelanders is available digitally on Amazon: Amazon, Amazon Australia, Amazon UK, Amazon Brazil, Amazon France, Amazon Germany, Amazon India, Amazon Italy, Amazon Spain, Amazon Japan, Amazon Mexico. Members of the Kindle Unlimited program can borrow this book and the sequel, Sorrow’s Peak from the Lending Library with their membership.

A Note on Excerpt Week

March 11, 2015 / Marcia Meara / 3 Comments

Hi, Folks!

I’m having a good time with Excerpt Week, though I wish more of you were playing. Come on, don’t be shy! We want to read…and SHARE…what you’ve written. A couple of points I need to make though:

1. If you area not a regular contributor to The Write Stuff, you can still share an excerpt from your books. Please email me at mmeara@cfl.rr.com and I’ll tell you how. It will work much better than trying to share in the comments section. I promise to post for you, or to tell you how to become a contributor so you can do it yourself.

2. I reserve the right (I’ve always wanted to say that) to insert the “Continue Reading” break into the middle of longer posts, though I probably won’t do it until the front page of the blog starts to fill up. This is just so that other posts don’t get lost. You won’t lose your readers, as they can click to see the rest of your excerpt or post. When it’s a slow day, this isn’t an issue, but as more posts come in, it helps keep things visible.

3. As you read and enjoy these exerpts, please, please remember to SHARE with all your friends. Reblog, post on Facebook, Tweet them out, email links to friends you think would be especially interested…whatever you want. But the main reason this blog exists is for writers to help writers, and that includes sharing far and wide to put writers in front of potential readers. We’ll all do the same for you, when you post.

And that’s it. Enjoy all the goodies our group has to offer! We are a widely diverse and interesting bunch, here. And take advantage of this chance to share your own work, whether published yet, or not. Let’s get your name out there!

As you were, people!

Excerpt from Dead Girl in a Charleston Marsh

March 11, 2015 / Marcia Meara / 2 Comments

Author Eldon Brown shared a table with me at the St. Cloud Author Symposium a few weeks ago, and would like to share an excerpt from his mystery, Dead Girl in a Charleston Marsh. Here you go, Eldon. Enjoy, folks!

…The marsh often yielded small treasures which lodged among the tall cattails. Ben spotted something gray and large, ebbing at the edge of the marsh. Might be a dead gator he thought. He approached with caution, realizing that the creature might not be dead. He picked up his newly found paddle to use against the animal; just in case. He hoped it was dead, as he could sell fresh gator, for a dollar a pound, to a local butcher. Simpson reduced speed and carefully approached the floating mass but it was not a gator. Just some old clothes, he surmised. Sadly, he put his paddle down. Someone just too lazy to phone Salvation Army. He prodded the wet mound with his long handled net. The mass moved slightly, bobbing in the Mercury’s prop wash. It turned just enough that a bloated face suddenly appeared and then, freed from the cattails, it rolled over and began a lonesome voyage down river. Simpson fought the nausea that almost overcame him. His heart raced and he began to shiver. He was cold, yet he perspired. He knew that no life remained in the body which now floated away. The swollen face was gray and bits of skin were torn away where the crabs had been feasting.

Dead Girl in a Charleston Marsh is available on Amazon in both print & Kindle formats.

#Excerpt week – THE PRINCE’S MAN by Deborah Jay #EpicFantasy #readers #books

March 10, 2015March 10, 2015 / Deborah Jay / Debby Lush / 4 Comments

Stepping up to the plate 😀

Thanks Marcia for this great idea – sampling authors we’ve not met before.

So here is a little teaser snippet from THE PRINCE’S MAN, a novel best summed up as ‘James Bond meets Lord of the Rings’.

Excerpt – THE PRINCE’S MAN

“Dart, meet Charmer. Charmer, meet Dart.”

Rustam looked pleadingly at Halnashead. “You’re joking, surely? You must be. She can’t be Dart; she’s—”

“What?” cut in Lady Risada. “A woman?”

“No! Well, yes. I suppose so.” Rustam shifted uncomfortably, his mind reeling as it tried to adjust to the concept of a noblewoman as a player. Female servants on occasion, yes. But a lady?

He glanced aside at the lady in question. She stared coldly back.

“Please, please!” Halnashead drew their attention. “I want you two to get on with each other. Does it surprise you so much, Rusty?”

“Rusty?” echoed Lady Risada derisively.

Taken aback by the lady’s obvious animosity, Rustam considered the prince’s question. “I suppose it shouldn’t. With her court position, the lady has access to all levels of nobility; certainly a great asset to your Highness.”

“And don’t you forget it, dancer boy,” muttered Risada.

Halnashead frowned. “Be nice, Risada. Rustam is my most skilled agent.”

“Most skilled womaniser, you mean!”

More to follow tomorrow…

Excerpt #2 from Summer Magic

March 10, 2015March 10, 2015 / Marcia Meara / Leave a comment

For those of us here in central Florida, where the temps reached into the 80’s today, this isn’t so far away. For those of you still suffering from frostbite and chilblains, maybe this will give you hope that summer will come again. 🙂

The Sound of Dreams Coming True

Side by side,
They recline,
Deckchair wood
Warm against their
Shoulders.
Eyes closed,
Almost dozing in
Late afternoon shade,
The humid sounds of August
Sluicing over them
Like warm water
On even warmer skin.
Old Summer is singing.

Listen, he says,
Do you hear it?
Um-hmm, she answers,
As a bird pours
Liquid notes into the
Emerald and ochre of the garden.
What is that, he asks.
It’s the cardinal, Love,
Calling his mate.
They’ve built a nest in
The mock-orange,
This year.
Ah.

Listen, he says again,
As a soft hum
Grows around them,
Swelling into a
Chirring rhythm,
Which fills the air with
A noise as familiar
As summer, itself.
What is that, he asks.
Katydids, she says,
Reaching for his hand,
They’re singing songs of
Love just for us.
Ah.

Listen, she says,
Kissing his fingers,
As a little girl laughs,
Chasing fireflies
With her big brother.
Do you hear it, Love?
Do you hear the sound of
Dreams coming true?
I hear our children,
Playing late on a summer’s eve,
He says, turning to
Look at her soft smile.
Yes, she replies . . .
Exactly.
Ah.

***

Summer Magic: Poems of Life & Love is available on Amazon for download to Kindle

Tips to jump-start your writing (unless you’re in Arkansas)

March 10, 2015March 11, 2015 / Ned's Blog / 21 Comments

By Ned Hickson

There’s nothing quite like staring at a blank page, knowing that with a few strokes of the keyboard you will transform a landscape devoid of life into a living, breathing thing of your own creation. There’s also nothing quite like finishing that fourth cup of coffee only to find that same blank page staring back at you.

Sure, you may have typed several sentences — or maybe even the same sentence several times — in hopes of gaining some kind of momentum to carry you over that first hump, but the cursor repeatedly stalls out in the same spot, leaving you with the same blank page after riding the “delete” button back to the beginning.

Hey, that’s why it’s called a “cursor.”

I’ll be honest. I don’t necessarily subscribe to the notion of writer’s “block,” which suggests some kind of blockage — such as a cheese wedge or too many butter biscuits — restricting movement through a hypothetical colon of creativity. Although there are some books in print that offer evidence to support at least part of the colon theory, I prefer to think of the writing process as cells in a battery; when they are fully charged, things start easily. But if the alternator belt slips too much or the terminals get corroded, you end up without enough juice to turn the engine. Because we are writers and not mechanics, and because that last sentence exhausted the full extent of my automotive knowledge, I will sum up my analogy with this: When your battery is low, you get a jump, right?

Writing is no different. Continue reading →

Excerpt from Swamp Ghosts

March 10, 2015March 11, 2015 / Marcia Meara / Leave a comment

You guys have been warned. If nobody else is posting excerpts (and maybe even if they ARE), I’ll fill in the blanks for the whole week. I’ve got 3 novels and a book of poetry out, plus a new work in progress. I have LOTS I can share. Creepy stuff, like this prologue, romantic scenes, funny scenes, scenes from the 60’s, scenes with no redeeming social value at all…you get the picture. And without further ado, here…in its entirety, because there’s really no good place to break this one…is the prologue from Swamp Ghosts. When someone else posts today, I’ll split it to take up less room. For now, it’s all right here on the main page. 😀 Enjoy! Shiver, if you like. It’s encouraged. (And you have my permission to buy the book to see what else happens. 😀 Link is at the bottom.)

…

THE CAR BUMPED and rocked as he drove down the rutted dirt road, steering by a wash of silver light from the gibbous moon. Only a few more nights until it was completely full, making the road nearly as bright as it would be by day, but there was still enough light tonight to see that the way ahead was clear—except for the tall grasses and weeds, indicating no one had driven the road in a long time. That was all the visibility he needed. Not much chance of meeting anyone along such a remote stretch of river, anyway, especially since the state had bought this entire tract of land a few years ago, and chained off all the roads, posting No Access signs everywhere. Still, he wasn’t going to tempt fate by turning on his headlights. Not with what he was carrying in the back on this summer night.

Should be nearing the old canoe launch any time now. Continue reading →

Excerpt #2 From Wake-Robin Ridge

March 9, 2015March 11, 2015 / Marcia Meara / Leave a comment

Just so you know that Wake-Robin Ridge isn’t ONLY about the creepy moments, though there are definitely some of those, here’s an excerpt from Chapter 3. Sarah Gray has recently quit her job as a librarian and moved from Florida to the North Carolina Mountains. This is shortly after moving into her new cabin, and she’s spent the morning unpacking and setting up house. Like me, Sarah often suffers from an excess of enthusiasm. 😀 Tomorrow, I’ll share one or two from Swamp Ghosts…and maybe another poem, depending on how many posts come in from you guys!

Enjoy!

****

…I lugged the empty boxes out to the front porch to be disposed of later, and decided I had earned a break. Fixing a cup of my favorite Earl Grey tea, I walked out my back door, and began a stroll around my property. It was pretty early yet, and the morning was surprisingly cool, at least by the standards of someone who knew what August in central Florida felt like. Walking down to the edge of the creek, I stopped in the deep green shade of a redbud tree, watching the way the rush of water slowed as it poured into one of the deeper pools. I wondered if there might be trout hiding in there, and for one, insane minute I pictured myself fishing for my dinner. Then I came back to reality.

As if, Sarah! It’s all you can do to swat a fly. You’d feel sorry for the fish and turn it loose, apologizing for interrupting its day.

I laughed at my foolishness, and continued to walk around the yard, taking note of how high the late summer grasses were. Might have to get a riding mower to handle the yard. And then there was all the overgrowth along the edge of the creek. Kudzu vines and wild blackberries had run amok. I’d definitely have to hire someone to clear that out at some point. But other than that, it was all perfect, with slow, sleepy bees bumbling among the wildflowers, and the sound of birdsong coming from the woods.

The online photos hadn’t lied. The cabin was lovely in its comfortable, solid simplicity, and the yard and garden, with its big, tilled beds, offered a chance to let my famous green thumb run wild. Well, okay, I didn’t really have a famous green thumb, having never owned a house with a garden, but I had always loved plants, and on this morning, I felt sure I could develop a garden that would be celebrated far and wide. Visions of sunflowers and roses, carrots and cabbages, and luscious pink and blue hydrangeas danced in my head.

Oh, I felt very lucky, all right. And filled with an optimism I hadn’t felt in ten years of cataloging endless mountains of manuscripts and dusty documents. But no more of that for me. Now, I was free to unleash the writer’s spirit I was sure had been caged deep within me all this time.

I’m going to put pen to paper—or fingertips to computer keys—and words are going to pour forth. I will send them out into the world to multiply, and become books. My words will be erudite, yet pithy. Evocative, but always grounded. Poetry presented as prose. Or maybe it would be prose presented as poetry. Heck, why not both? Who’s to stop me? Continue reading →

Excerpt Week! Ghost in the Canteen

March 9, 2015March 9, 2015 / Jen Rasmussen / 14 Comments

I’m putting some of this after a jump so as to share the front page with all the other lovely excerpts we’ll be seeing here during excerpt week, which I’m sure we can all agree was a genius idea on Marcia’s part. Naturally, I’m tacking on a little shameless self promotion. I hope you’ll all do the same, to make it easy for me to find your books.

I’m looking forward to finding some new stuff for my Kindle this week, so get posting!

Ghost in the Canteen is a modern paranormal fantasy with elements of horror, comedy, severed stuff, and supernaturally powerful dogs. As the first in the Lydia Trinket series, it’s permanently priced at 99¢ at major online retailers. Book two in the series, Peak of the Devil, is coming next month. (For anyone who’s already read Ghost, an excerpt of Peak is available at my website, but you should be warned: that one contains adult language!)

ONE

It was the Newfie that started it. It attacked me, which is not normal for a Newfoundland, much less a statue. I was sitting in the dining room of the Dodd house, giving its resident ghost a lecture. The faint scents of tobacco and vanilla were the only signs of him in a room made dim by heavy (and awful) mauve-striped curtains.

“Look Thomas, I get how hard it must have been.” I gestured down the long table. “All the Thanksgiving turkeys served here over the years, all the birthday candles blown out. Your brother at the head of your table. Spending your money. Married to your girl.”

Something growled behind me.

A life-sized wooden Newfie sat between the sideboard and a bookshelf that held china figures and teacups, but no books. The poor dog had seen better days. His paint was chipped, his body scratched. One of his ears ended abruptly in a splintered edge.

We were of a height when I knelt in front of him. “Are you Thomas’s dog?” In the interest of common ground, I hoped so. Establishing rapport and all that. “I had a Newfoundland too,” I announced for old Tom’s benefit. “White and black, just like yours. His name was Little John.”

The vanilla-and-tobacco smell grew stronger. I scratched the Newf’s worn wooden ruff. “You’re a good boy to try to protect him. But I’m here for his own good.” I felt the rumble of his second growl beneath my fingers, and took my hand away.

“I told you, Thomas, I get it. I’d be pissed off too, believe me. But a century is long enough to wallow in it. It’s not healthy for you.”

No growl this time. The silence grew thick, the air cold.

“What do you say, huh? Maybe you’re ready to go of your own free will? Save us all some trouble?” They almost never accepted this offer, but I considered it polite to ask. Apparently my good manners did nothing to impress Thomas Dodd.

The dog came at me in a flurry of snarls and barks. I jumped away a split second too late, and his teeth grazed my hand. He was still made of wood, his coat faded paint instead of fur, but his breath was hot and real.

My back slammed into the bookshelf, nearly tipping it over. I raised my arms to protect myself from its falling contents while I thrust a knee into the advancing Newf’s chest. (Although the force of my strike was tempered by the part of me, the crazy part, that didn’t want to hurt a dog.) He snapped at my leg as a china shepherdess broke across his back.

Something heavy smacked my shoulder, then bounced away. I heard it shatter against the table. The dog got hold of my forearm, drawing blood. Whatever had hit me had thrown me off balance, and my feet got tangled with the legs of a chair as I tried to pull away from those teeth that didn’t feel like wood at all.

My head hit the back of the chair, and then my cheek and nose were smashed into the musty-smelling carpet. Well great, this is it then. As usual, my inner critic sounded disappointed, but not surprised. You go down when a dog’s attacking you and you’re as good as dead.

Continue reading →