The central question of the book is, "If you had just 24 hours to live, what would you do with your time?"
Of course, my brain went into overtime thinking of what I'd do for my final twenty-four.
1. The first thing I'd do is check on my legal documents. I want to make sure my loved ones have all the information they need to have a good life after I am gone.
2. I'd make love to the Charming Man. *hearts*
3. I'd write love notes to my friends and family so they would know how much they have meant to me. Heck, I'd write The One I Had To Say Goodbye To, just to let them know that they had made my life a better place.
4. I'd sneak a few love notes into the Charming Man's drawers and desk. Something to make him smile!
5. I'd make love to the Charming Man. (He better have taken his vitamins)
6. I'd put my money where my mouth is. I take a lump sum of money and just hand it out to people higgley-piggly. We all deserve a windfall. We all deserve some unexpected blessings. And I would want one of my final acts to be one that brought joy to the world.
7. Then I'd invite everyone I could over to my house and I would have a huge party. Lots of dancing, lots of crazy costumes, exquisite food, games, hugs, kisses, cuddles, and soulful talks. Maybe sneak in some lovemaking with the Charming Man. We would play all night long, because play feeds the body, mind, and soul.
Whew! That's a full 24 hours. What would be on your list?
Dracula Unleashed takes place all over the world. I've been lucky enough to travel to some of the locations I write about. Here we go, across the globe!
Amsterdam is the home of Luc Breton, the European leader.
More Amsterdam. So gorgeous!
The Hagia Sophia.
Once a cathedral and a mosque, the Hagia is a museum. Can you imagine worshipping here?
Every book has its own rhythm and its own soundtrack. I did try to do a bunch of YouTube Links here but that didn't work so well. Instead, here is a Spotify playlist that you can revisit over and over.
Here we are - classic heavy metal to women of rock!
I'll be releasing Dracula Unleashed in the fall - a perfect adventure story for the cold days.
In order to whet your appetite, here is a snippet!
Patience
was a virtue Valerie Tate usually lacked. Loyalty, though, she had in
abundance. Therefore she loyally, if impatiently, told Glenath Tempesta for the
sixth time. “No.I don’t know where Luc
is.”
Luc Breton, the leader of the paranormal community in Europe, was
obviously avoiding Glenath. On a stranger note, though, he was avoiding
television and all media appearances. For as long as Valerie had known Luc, oh,
a couple of centuries now, he was an attention hog. She cleared her throat in
emotional discomfort. Personal honesty forced her to admit to having this
particular flaw herself.
“I’ve got this damned
conference in three weeks,” Glenath said for the seventh time. “I need him
here, in Portland, so we can renegotiate the Treaty of Prague.” A slight
slurping sound came over the phone. Glenath had taken to calling Valerie during
mealtime. The woman was living on milkshakes snatched between meetings. Valerie
said nothing on the Bishop’s terrible habits. Her own diet was equally limited.
“This whole situation stinks,” Glenath said after swallowing. “The tensions
here are rising. I’m sure there will be a war.” In the background, Glenath's vampire lover, Anthony, growled in agreement.
Valerie made a
non-committal sound. Her own extensive experience of war had left her jaded.
There was always going to be another war. Her friendship to Glenath kept her
silent on the topic. The mortal had an aversion to such matter-of-fact
thoughts.
Humans, Valerie thought
kindly. Always so hopeful.
Glenath and her boyfriend, Anthony, are based off of this hot pairing.
Here are my notes for my workshop! I hope you all enjoy.
Nazi Snuff Porn or, How to deal with bad reviews
The very first review I got on my very first book was on GoodReads. Someone called my innovative, unusual vampire romance, “Nazi Snuff Porn.”
OUCH. Nazi Snuff Porn?? For a redemption story with Fallen Angels, Dracula, political commentary, AND a pretty fabulous (by my thoughts, at least) love story?
The second review I ever got on my book was on Amazon, where a woman claimed that it was the worst book she had read that year. DOUBLE OUCH.
That was quite the one-two punch, delivered within less than an hour of each other. People hated my writing, my characters, and weren’t even too thrilled with me. Bad reviews kill hope, strike in the heart of us. Their nasty insinuations ring in our minds, poisoning our confidence, cutting our dreams off at their knees. Every single writer in the world deals with negative reviews, nasty put-downs, and horrible rejections. In the midst of our pain, we think, “Oh, I just need to have a thicker skin.”
I’m here to say that you don’t need a thicker skin. Your thin skin is a gift. Thin skin is why we have a five day work week, why we have child labor laws, and the Society to prevent cruelty to animals. Thin skin means you see something wrong and you go fix it. It is what allows us to write with passion and the power to change the world. Our thin skin is what gives our writing power, emotion, and importance. Our concern for the state of the world and each other is the greatest motivator and the foundation of all we do.
But. Bad reviews still hurt. Life is hard and it comes at you fast and it hurts. What I’m going to give you today are concrete, real world tools to deal with these horrible people.
It can take time to recover. With these tips, you can cut that recovery time down to hours or days, instead of months.
Once you get a bad review or rejection. 1. Self-Care
a. Stand up. Brush off that nasty energy!
b. Do some self-percussion. Stimulate your circulation.
c. Jam out.
2. Celebrate!
a. Pop the champagne! Goddamn it, you wrote and published a book. You put yourself out there. You are brave, you finish what you start, and you have survived far more misery than these wanna-be Ebert and Siskels can imagine. Celebrate your courage. Have a party. You’ve made it! You’ve written a book and someone has hated it. You’re in good company. Damn it, you wrote a book and it created a reaction. That is fantastic.
3. Embrace the sisterhood of bad reviews: Behold:
The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Universe
One has to be puzzled why people would read such drivel as this. The characters, the plot, the story, the background, the atmosphere, the landscape, the tone etc. is just awful, with little or no redeeming social or artistic value... You'll save your eyes and your time and get more benefits by sleeping than by reading this book-like-object.
Donna Tart, whose first book had won the Pulitzer, had someone say this about her second: and Donna Tartt’s The Secret History.
Reading this book was like watching paint dry, fade, start to flake off, and finally disintegrate.
or: This book is not worth the read unless one is looking for a long drawn out plot going nowhere.
And have you ever read Nora Robert’s bad reviews? Man, you’ll feel like a million bucks afterwards.
b. When the most likable character is a horse you have to wonder.....
4. It’s not about you. It’s not about you. It’s not about you.
a. These people get a kick, a thrill that is almost sexual, out of destroying someone’s dream. They will never admit it, but you can tell in all of their reviews and comments, that saying horrible things is how they fuel their self –righteous belief that they are smarter than anyone else.
Look at the Eggers quote on your handout. Remember that rage and envy. Because that leads us concrete actions.
5. How do you deal with these idiots with the IQ of a turnip? It’s one thing to deal with your emotions when you are safely reading in a magazine or behind a computer screen. But some people’s children The four most important words in a writer’s vocabulary:
a. “No Kidding!” and “Thank you.”
There are four words you need to know. No kidding and Thank you.
For example: “Your books sucks!”
“No kidding!”
“I read your dirty book.”
“Thank you.”
“I liked your book.”
“Thank you!”
The NUCLEAR OPTION
If nothing else works. If someone is trying to manipulate you.
Dale Spender story about lipstick. “Are you trying to orchestrate my response?”
In all honesty, I didn’t come with these. I stole them from much smarter people.
Now that you‘re feeling better, here’s how to read a bad review
6. Analyze the criticism
Take a look at the critic’s other reviews. See who they are, what they complain about, and what they do like. I’m going to lay odds, and really good ones, that they have a pet theory, a belief that things (often fictional things) are set in stone. We all have our beliefs and opinions. People with class, maturity, and style state those beliefs and opinions in ways that encourage the artist to keep going. They will say what they like, what they want to see more of, and tell you how to improve your work. But that’s hard and takes time, so your critics won’t.
a. Are the comments consistent in each bad review? Do they talk about convoluted plots? Historical inaccuracies? If your reviews tend to say that your characters are unrealistic, take a look at them. Do they mention problematic proofreading and editing? These reviews are helpful and let you know how to improve.
b. Nazi Snuff Porn, huh?
I had taken particular care with the section that dealt with Nazi War Crimes. As a historian, I found primary source materials from the men who liberated the first of the work camps – Mittlebau-Dora in Nordhausen. Everything I wrote had been documented from eyewitness accounts. The stories of bodies stacked like firewood, of feces being pounded into the cement from bombing? Those descriptions came from the survivors and rescuers.
I re-read the passages. I thought about how my characters responded to seeing this devastation. I decided that the work stood on its own.
c. “Worst book of the year”? After running around the house screaming, “I’m Number One! I’m Number One!”, I calmed down. And it struck me as *funny*. My little novel was the worst book of the year? The “worst book of the year” review also said it had too much sex. Well, that’s hardly bad news! After all, one person’s yuck is another’s turn on.
d. Also, worst book? Some self-satisfied yutzes on Amazon said the same thing about Left Hand of Darkness. 7. First exercise
a. Write down every single nasty thing you can imagine. Think of what your worst enemy would say about your heart project. 2 minutes
b. Give some space between each cut.
c. Take some deep breaths. Brush it off, and do some funk. :)
d. Now. Take a look. What is your wound? What wounds are these words hitting? Is it the fear of making mistakes? Of making someone mad at you? Write down what fear or hurt these things push.
e. When you go home, journal about these fears.
8. Second exercise.
Next, write down every single awesome thing you can think of. What an audience full of people who love you and want you to succeed would say? What would they like? How would they give helpful feedback if you made a mistake?
What is the wound these words are healing?
Pin that list up by your desk. In Conclusion.
In the end, it’s all copy. Use it. Take these feelings; the loss, the hurt, the desire for revenge, and USE them. Write scene after scene of your heroine taking it on the jaw and coming up swinging.
Finally, the big point. The most important point. The only thing you really need to keep from this workshop is: The best revenge is living well. You want to get back at these bullies and bitches? Keep writing. Have an awesome life researching, writing, loving, laughing, immersing yourself in life.
Will these pixels on a screen or lines on paper stop you from writing??
If you stop, they will win. You are a writer. And you are invincible!
It was an old-fashioned card case. Inside was a red OPA token, a faded photograph of a handsome army officer. On the back of the photograph, an inscription read, "10/10. Full and satisfied."
Patty stared at the treasure in her hand. "What the hell is an OPA?" She opened her phone and looked it up.
Huh. The US Office of Prince Administration used them to freeze prices during World War II. The tokens were used for rationing. The red ones were mostly used for meats. Cool.
The black and white photograph revealed the eagle on his epaulets. Again, Wikipedia to the rescue. Colonel. Nice.
She sat down on an overturned milk crate amidst the dust and silence of her great-grandmother's attic. Several months after the funeral, only a smattering of boxes remained in storage. The downstairs furniture had already been distributed to the extended family. Here, in this third to last box, was a collection of card cases and notebooks.
Patty flicked open the next case. This picture was off a...hmm...three bars up, one down. According to her research, a staff Sargent. On the back was "5/10" but there were ten blue tokens.
She flipped open a random yellowed notebook. "Nice cock, but much too fast." The phrase caught her eye. Patty giggled. "Maman, you minx!" A box full of souvenirs and ratings on old lovers. Oh, this find was hers and hers alone. For years, Patty had been been the black sheep of their family with her free-love attitude. Nice to know she came from *somewhere* along the family tree. No one else was in the attic with her. She slid the old box into a new one, taped it shut, pulled the cap off a Sharpie and wrote, "Recycling" on the side.
Soft-footed, she tip-toed down the stairs, took the box directly to her car, put it in the truck, covered it with a blanket. She and great-grandmother were going to have a good sharing of secrets tonight!
At dusk, the fairies snuck into the deserted quarry.They gathered the brass vases left scattered around the gravel. The bits of iron they left behind.
The city fairies loved what the county fairies made of the empty cylinders. Alone, they were vases. Pierced and hung upside down, they made beautiful lanterns for fairy bedroom or entryway. Set on their sides, cut in half, and padded, they made wonderful cradles for babies. The brass protected the young from night terrors. If the artists added a lid and a spout, the vases would carry water
Today was a particularly spectacular haul. The hard-working fairies chatted and laughed as they collected the bounty.
Until one came along the dead body of a Big Person. His skin, once brown, was gray and soaked in the nasty-smelling ichor the Bigs had in their veins. His chest and abdomen had been carved open by several oblong projectiles.
Most of the fairies vomited. Afterwards, they dropped flowers on the dead man's eyes.
The tiny copper colored wires sang an ancient song to her. The object held metal flanges set into a metal circle. Tiny wires descended from the flanges through the glass of its container to end in a horseshoe of 7 thing prongs.
She pressed the prongs into the fleshy part of her arm and admired the neat impressions they made. The glass was unlike the smoky, opaque glass she'd known her entire life. The glass was clear and smooth, pleasing to the touch. At the very top, the glass came to a point, like some kind of exotic hat.
The long-extinct humans had been great experimenters and inventors. She recognized this object from her ancient history; it had been used to control electric currents. Here in New LA, they had tamed the tides to create power since the surface dwellers' electricity didn't work in the water. But despite her people's eight limbs and sensitive suckers, they had trouble with the transmission of kinetic energy.
She wrapped the pleasant glass tube in one limb and propelled out of her salvage building. The future depended on the music of a forgotten spark.
Misinformation about Islam, Islamic countries, and the history of the Middle East runs like a river of sewage through modern life. I would like, in my own small way, to increase understanding of between people.
Part of the problem about understanding a different religion and different cultures lies in the nature of American media. Reporters and commentators are under pressure to dispense to enormous amounts of information very quickly. Also, when once the news was seen as a service for the public good on behalf of the stations, information is now seen as a chance for ratings. As a result, careful, nuanced, and accurate data often gets shoved aside.
I hope I can bring some of the nuance back to the discussion of Islam!
One of the questions I get from people is: What *is* the difference between Sunni Muslims and Shi'a Muslims?
As always, the history is everything.
As always, the history is very long.
Let's start with the simplest answer. The split began in 632 CE, when the Prophet Muhammad died. Despite the Prophet's many accomplishments, he did not think to arrange an order of succession for temporal leadership.
And whenever there is a vacuum for leadership, people get angry and confused. Some of the Muslims wanted Muhammad's cousin and son-in-law, Ali, to succeed. Others wanted Abu Baker, M's father-in-law, to lead them.
A whole bunch of really unpleasant battles, murders, and other horrible things then followed. I'll get into the details of these examples of human nastiness if anyone wants to read them. I find them fascinating and important, but I understand that not everyone does. :)
So, let's get down to how this shakes out to the modern split.
Sunni's are the majority of Muslims. Shi'as are a minority - about 10-20% of the world's Muslim population. As is usual with minorities, the Shi'a live in greater poverty and are persecuted under many governments.
The Shi'a believe that the Imam (the one who leads prayers) is both the spiritual and political leader of the Muslims. The Imam is supposed to be the keeper of justice and the interpreter/keeper of the Divine laws. As a result, Sunni can see the Shi'a as serious challenges to their spiritual and temporal authority.
My wrists are starting to hurt! I'm going to stop here. If you have any questions or thoughts, let me know!
One of the great joys of being live is learning new things. As a writer, historian, and former librarian, my curiosity has the freedom to Go and Find Out (much like Rikki Tikki Tavi).
Also like Rikki, my curiosity goes everywhere, including some very strange and uncomfortable places. I have always found something worth learning whenever I have done this, though, even if that thing is simply, "Yeah, let's not do things quite *that* way, shall we?"
As a result of all this curiosity, I have a vast and eccentric body of knowledge that I've always felt vaguely weird about. Some of the things I've looked up and asked people about aren't, well, *respectable*.
But part of the joy of learning things is sharing things. As a result, I'm gonna share some weird tid-bits of my weird brain. The first installment is....
What is the difference between a sex sling and a sex swing??
(Yes, I have looked this up.)
Swing!
A sex SWING is made of a series of stretchy straps, designed mainly for heterosexual couples. The
straps support the back, the bottom, and the legs. They are often attached by a single point to door frames or other stable places, and are a fixture at heterosexual sex clubs. (Yes, I have looked this up) While often a boon for sexual activity, it tends to not be supportive enough for all body types and shapes.
A sex SLING is like a mini-hammock. Often associated with gay male sexual activity, it is either a sheet of stiff, strong leather or a netting made of leather (or easy to clean webbing). Since it is more substantial, it allows for greater support of all body types. It is usually attached to a rack or hard points by chains at each of the four corners of the leather sheet.
Again, the challenge was to write, just write. Not think, not edit, not change anything.
As a result, I present:
Quest
Accepted
It is the twenty-first century. The days of seven
league boots, of secret wizards doling out quests from hidden booths in the market,
of dreams that come true are long, long gone.
Modern people could only shuffle through racks and
shelves of vintage stores to get a glimpse of the most mundane of treasures.
The well-worn denim jacket fit perfectly. Rare for a
thrift store find, but what drew her to it was the trio of badges that promised
things she only dared dream.
One was a smiley face with a negative sign to
indicate a wink and a positive sign for a nose. One was a topless woman, reminiscent
of a Nagel painting, with the words Soft Metals across the center, and the
last, the most intriguing button said, “Talk Kinky to Me!”
She clutched the lapels in her hands and posed in
front of the mirror. The reflection showed a bad-ass, someone daring, someone
who flirted and knew her own desires. Someone who took risks.
About as far as she could get from her normal
introverted self.
The jacket was five dollars.She chewed on her lower lip. Five dollars for a
broken-in jean jacket was not a risk. She could take off the buttons if she
wanted to.
Blushing, she bought the jacket and hurried out the
store. Quest accepted.
Last year was a rough one here at the Charming-Mercury household. As I result, I lost my love of writing and shut down.
Quite frankly, it sucked.
My dear friend Coral Mallow rode to the rescue! For Christmas, she gave me a box full of writing prompts. Here is the first prompt. Her challenge to me was to write fast, not edit, and let the story come.
And here we are!
Secret Rose
He was the baddest, burliest, biker boy you ever did
see. Leathers, patches, tattoos, scars, beard, long hair…the whole shebang.
There was one thing, though, that no one was brave enough to ask about – the matter
of the tiny bouquet of roses pinned into his hair.
But if they had asked, he would have told them the
truth. Of the baby sister he’d once had. How he had built a full Victoriandoll-house for her; three floors of
littlerugs, teacups, and lace
curtains.
She was a surprise baby, born when he was fully
sixteen years old. The late pregnancy took a toll on everyone, though. Their
miracle had Down’s Syndrome.
No one cared. Little Rosie was their sunshine, their
joy, the reason the household smiled every day. Her uncoordinated hands could
play with the delicate handmade furniture for hours, never once scratching or
dropping his hard work.
The therapist always encouraged his time with Rose,
but truth was, he would have played with her anyway. She was his escape from
the misery of High School where he only excelled in the automotive arts.
She died the day he graduated from from his motorcycle repair course.
He took the tiny bouquet of roses from the entry hall of the doll-house, put
them in his braid, and left town, never to return to the scene of his heartbreak.
