by Sarah | Oct 28, 2013 | Guest Authors, Top Ten Tuesday, Writing
I’m a movie buff. There’s something about the right combination of screenplay, direction, production, editing, and acting, that I just enjoy discovering. And when a movie is really good, I’ll watch it over and over. Sometimes I catch things I missed before, which is, to me, the mark of a great film. For the most part, I prefer classic movies, but newer ones grab me too. This is my top ten list of movies that are worth watching more than once.
10. [amazon_link id=”B001D8W7EK” target=”_blank” container=”” container_class=”” ]Notorious (1946)[/amazon_link]
Cary Grant and Ingrid Bergman give stellar performances as a US intelligence officer and a woman who’s asked to spy on a Nazi group in South America.
9. [amazon_link id=”B00008LDO3″ target=”_blank” container=”” container_class=”” ]The Ox-bow Incident (1943)[/amazon_link]
Dana Andrews and Henry Fonda star in this gripping study of vigilantism in the Old West and what sort of man would go along with it.
8. [amazon_link id=”079284615X” target=”_blank” container=”” container_class=”” ]Henry V (1989)[/amazon_link]
Kenneth Branagh wrote, directed, and starred in this adaptation of Shakespeare’s play. Standout performances by a cast that includes Emma Thompson, Judi Dench, and a young Christian Bale.
7. [amazon_link id=”B00005A06N” target=”_blank” container=”” container_class=”” ]Some Like it Hot (1959)[/amazon_link]
What do two male musicians who witness a gang slaying do to escape the killers? Disguise themselves as women and join an all female musical troupe, of course. Jack Lemmon, Tony Curtis, and Marilyn Monroe shine in this fun romp by Billy Wilder.
6. [amazon_link id=”B0012KPPP2″ target=”_blank” container=”” container_class=”” ]My Man Godfrey (1936)[/amazon_link]
Carole Lombard died too young. She’s perfect as the flighty Irene Bullock in this classic screwball comedy and a great foil to William Powell’s staid rich man turned forgotten man turned butler.
5. [amazon_link id=”B000J670ZI” target=”_blank” container=”” container_class=”” ]Bringing up Baby (1938)[/amazon_link]
Howard Hawks surely got his wish when he declared he wanted no normal characters in this film. Cary Grant and Katharine Hepburn always played well off each other, and this movie was no exception. Lots of fun, with some great one-liners.
4. [amazon_link id=”B00004RF97″ target=”_blank” container=”” container_class=”” ]The Philadelphia Story (1940)[/amazon_link]
Another fun Katharine Hepburn and Cary Grant film, this time with the added talents of James Stewart and Ruth Hussey. A socialite about to remarry finds her ex husband has returned, with some guests that make her rethink her priorities. Another movie with some great quips.
3. [amazon_link id=”B009L147EE” target=”_blank” container=”” container_class=”” ]The Best Years of our Lives (1946)[/amazon_link]
Three men return home from World War II to find their lives are unalterably changed, some for the good, some for the bad. Dana Andrews gives a great performance as a shell-shocked bomber pilot whose life and marriage are spinning out of control.
2. [amazon_link id=”B000ID37RM” target=”_blank” container=”” container_class=”” ]To Kill a Mockingbird (1962)[/amazon_link]
Gregory Peck is at his best as Atticus Finch in this tale of racism, poverty, and ignorance in the Depression Era South. Two moments choke me up every time: when Atticus is leaving the courtroom after the trial and when Scout meets Boo face to face.
1. [amazon_link id=”B0030MTXKS” target=”_blank” container=”” container_class=”” ]The Lion in Winter (1968)[/amazon_link]
It’s Christmas in Chinon, and that means intrigue, anger, jealousy, and back-stabbing in this adaptation of James Goldman’s play. Katharine Hepburn is great as the imprisoned Eleanor of Aquitaine, and she and Peter O’Toole as Henry II play off each other well. This film marks the screen debuts of Timothy Dalton and Anthony Hopkins.
*~*
North and South: Wild and Wanton Edition, by Brenna Chase and Elizabeth Gaskell
Blurb:
Margaret Hale’s life changes dramatically when her father quits his living as a parson in the idyllic New Forest in the South of England and moves the family to the northern industrial town of Milton, intending to become a private tutor. There, she is appalled at the poverty surrounding her and at first finds the local mill workers too rough, but soon she can’t help sympathizing with their plight.
John Thornton is a magistrate and owner of a prosperous cotton mill. Forced to become the head of the household at a young age and driven to keep his family from becoming impoverished again, he’s had no time for love. He certainly has no time for a lady who looks down on both him and the industry in which he earns his livelihood. Their beliefs lead them to inevitably clash, but their arguments over his treatment of his workers mask a deep attraction neither wants, and eventually, one that neither can deny.
Although it is labeled as a social novel, North and South simmers with sexual tension. Through the backdrop of a labor strike and a riot, through a possible murder and its fallout, through the deaths of loved ones, and the rise and fall of fortunes, the romance between John Thornton and Margaret Hale still entrances readers as it did when first published in 1855. In this updated version, read the steamy scenes that Ms. Gaskell, a minister’s wife, could not include in the original work, from John and Margaret’s first desperate, yet tender, lovemaking, to their sizzling reunion in London.
Sensuality Level: Sensual
Excerpt:
“… You will see Milton without smoke in a few days, I imagine, Miss Hale.” He turned his gaze to her as he spoke, and sure enough, little spots of colour formed on her cheeks. He leaned forward in his chair as he awaited her reply.
“But why,” asked she, “could you not explain what good reason you have for expecting a bad trade? I don’t know whether I use the right words, but you will understand what I mean.”
“Do you give your servants reasons for your expenditure, or your economy in the use of your own money? We, the owners of capital, have a right to choose what we will do with it.”
“A human right,” said Margaret, very low.
“I beg your pardon, I did not hear what you said.”
“I would rather not repeat it,” said she; “it related to a feeling which I do not think you would share.”
“Won’t you try me?” pleaded he; his thoughts suddenly bent upon learning what she had said. She was displeased with his pertinacity, but did not choose to affix too much importance to her words.
“I said you had a human right. I meant that there seemed no reason but religious ones, why you should not do what you like with your own.”
***
“Miss Hale, this is between my employees and me. I’ll thank you to remember that.”
Incensed, she rose and removed the dressing gown, thrusting it toward him. “I had better go. Thank you, Mr. Thornton.”
He stood as well. “It’s still raining.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Then I wish you good day, Miss Hale.”
But she made no move to gather her hat and shawl as she looked up at him. Instead, she found herself wanting to smooth the frown from his brow, and she tore her gaze away, unable to understand the feeling. She cleared her throat and glanced back at him. He was suddenly closer, and his expression had grown more intent, his eyes darting from hers to her lips and back again. Her pulse began to race again and heat flared in her stomach. “Mr. Thornton.”
“John,” he said, his voice a little deeper and more rough than usual. “My name is John.”
Before Margaret could reply, his hands cupped her face, and his lips brushed hers. Her eyes, which had drifted closed, opened wide and she stared at him, her tongue darting out to taste where he had kissed. Mr. Thornton released a harsh breath and his lips covered hers again, moving over them with slow, lingering caresses. Margaret was too astonished to push him away. She was further stunned to realise she did not want to. She liked this kiss: from the light tingling pressure of his mouth on hers, to the soft scrape of his stubble against her face. She liked it very much! Heady excitement rushed through her veins, warming her as it spread through her limbs, her body. She began to kiss him back, answering each ardent stroke of Mr. Thornton’s lips with one of her own as she sought more of the wonderful feelings.
by Sarah | Oct 26, 2013 | Book Spotlight, Guest Authors, Saturday Spotlight, Writing
| [amazon_link id=”B00EZWT8XY” target=”_blank” container=”” container_class=”” ]Amazon[/amazon_link] |
FIGHT CARD ROMANCE: LADIES NIGHT
L.A. 1954 … gangsters, crime, young love and – murder.
Boxing hopeful, Jimmy Doherty’s in the fight of his life to save his bride, Lindy, from a murder rap before both of them wind up on a slab.
*~*
MY FAVORITE EXCERPT FROM “LADIES NIGHT” IS: when Lindy, the young bride of the boxing hopeful, Jimmy Doherty, arrested for the murder of another boxer, is placed in a jail cell where she meets two “pro-skirts” – prostitutes.
Lindy turned and strained to see into the shadows of the cells further away from hers, toward the laughter. She thought she was alone in the large depressing room.
The voice came again. “Keep you pants on, Bertha May. Don’t mean no harm.”
“Well, watch yourself,” Bertha May said, turning around to stalk back to her post. A moment later, she got up from her chair and left the cell block.
Lindy continued to stare in the direction the voice had come from. “Hello. Who’s there?”
“Hey, chicky, it’s me.”
Two cells across and down from Lindy’s, a woman’s hands appeared through the bars. “Saw you come in today. Guess they pinched you, too.”
“Pinched?” Lindy said confused.
“Yeah, you know. Got snatched up by the heat, put the screws to, given a vacation in the big-house.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“You was arrested, right?”
“Yes,” Lindy said hanging her head until it banged against the hard steel bars.
“So whatcha do? They catch you wearing iron tryin’ to pop one of your johns.”
Another female voice chimed in, “No, Daisy. Miss Priss ain’t never been a night-lady like us.”
The first woman turned around to look behind her at someone else in her cell. “That right, Louella?”
The second woman, who must have been laying down on one of the cots, stood and glanced across the aisle at Lindy through the gloom. “Cain’t you see just by lookin’ at her she ain’t no pro-skirt. That’s a right fine dress she’s a wearing. Classy. Not like you and me. Ain’t that right, honey?”
“No. I’m not a …” Lindy waved her hands looking for the appropriate word.
“It’s all right, honey. We know who we are and what we do. It ain’t no crime.” She and her companion burst out laughing. “Well, I guess it is a crime.”
“That is unless the chief and the squad boys want some.” Both women guffawed.
“Done that one a time or two,” Louella said.
Lindy recognized the women now. They were the two pro-skirts, ladies-of-ill-repute, who were sitting in the waiting area.
Louella, a Negro woman, was dressed much like her companion – short, tight skirt, overly stretched-sweater pulled low exposing most of what the good lord blessed them with. They’d teased their hair up into the mile-high beehives – Daisy’s, fire engine red and Louella’s, an unnatural midnight black.
Even in the dark, Lindy could see their make-up hadn’t survived the day. Most of it had floated south on their faces like a slow-moving river making them look like sad circus clowns. Daisy especially. Or had she been crying?
“So, if you ain’t one of us, who’d you mug or rub out?” Daisy said.
“I was arrested for the murder of Rocko Russo, the fighter.”
“Ain’t no way,” Louella said. “You tellin’ the truth?”
“Yes. Rocko’s dead. But I didn’t kill him.”
“Of course not, honey,” Louella said. “A little thing like you couldn’a hurt a fly let alone that horrible monster. That big brute had some mean muscle on him, went all the way to the bone all right.”
“And a terrible mean fist,” Daisy said, sadness on her make-up smeared face.
Lindy was afraid to ask. She could only guess how they were acquainted with Rocko and she hurt for them.
“So, DeLuca, he’s the one that nabbed you?” Louella said, threading her arms through the bars. “He’s a looker, that one. Um-mmm. That’s right. Mighty fine.”
“You ever do him?” Daisy turned to Louella.
“Nah. He’s a saint. Waiting on Miss Right an all.”
“Say, chickie.” Daisy turned to Lindy. “You and DeLuca …” Daisy winked.
“What?” Lindy felt the blood drain from her head. “Absolutely not. I’m married.”
“That right?” Louella perked up. “Who’s the lucky man?”
Lindy smiled for the first time in many hours. “He’s a boxer and such a wonderful, handsome man.”
“You don’t say? What’s his name? Maybe I know him.” Her smile was sly.
Lindy hoped she was teasing. “Jimmy Doherty. Won his first bout last Friday night.”
Louella shook her head. “Remember, Daisy. We was with Rocko till nearly midnight after his fight before he ditched us and took off.”
There was a deep sorrow etched on Daisy’s face and for the first time, Lindy saw the remnants of what looked like a mouse under Daisy’s eye. “Oh, yeah. I remember.”
Louella broke the somber mood that fell over the cellblock. “So what now, honey? You just coolin’ your heels in stir with us here big-time mama’s?”
Louella shook her dark head and hooted a bawdy laugh. “That just don’t seem right, a pretty little thing like you accused of murderin’ that no good, dirty snake. Not right at all. DeLuca’ll find out the truth. Yes, sir. Ain’t right. At least that bugger ain’t goin’ hurt us no more.”
What had Rocko done to these two women? Lindy could only imagine and she didn’t like what she thought. She couldn’t understand how women like Daisy and Louella could shame themselves and take up the oldest profession. She wished she could help them, take away their troubles and removed them from the filthy, self-degrading way they had to make a living. But what could she do?
*~*
AUTHOR BIO:
Carol Malone successfully combines her three passions – writing, sports, and romance to become the very first woman to climb into the boxing ring of a male-dominated series called Fight Card. Think Rocky meets The Untouchables, Carol’s written a mash-up of happily ever after with kick-in-the-pants, fist-pounding action.
If not hammering out new tales to entice her readers to scramble into a front row seat for thrilling tales of physical endurance and tender passion, Carol’s reading, watching sports on TV, or hanging with her end-of-the-world author husband on the cool coast of California. To talk sports and amour, and learn about Carol’s latest book releases, visit Carol on her website: www.carolmalone.net.
by Sarah | Oct 25, 2013 | Book Spotlight, Guest Authors, Saturday Spotlight, Writing
| SCP |
Blurb:
Months after Shane Martin’s sister vanishes, life crashes down and he finds himself the guardian of a nephew he never knew existed. Blissfully ignorant, Shane trades in his musician status, full of late nights and fast women, for midnight feedings and lullabies. But when Kate McAlister, his prissy, stuck up caseworker, arrives unexpectedly, he realizes he could lose everything.
Kate isn’t impressed by Shane’s messy bachelor pad, rocker image, or sexy tattoos. As a matter of fact she finds it all very sophomoric. The sooner she’s off the case the better. Everything from his long hair to his sarcastic attitude threatens her professionalism. But when he lowers his guard and asks for help, she discovers a side to this tattooed musician she can’t resist. Behind this simple man is an unsung hero.
Book Trailer:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IwSnY5u_sak
Simple Man is told strictly from the male hero’s POV and takes readers on a comical and heartwarming journey.
EXCERPT
When Duce left, Shane sifted through the bag. There were tiny diapers, wipes, some sort of yoga mat thing, a bunch of creams. He laughed when he saw something called Butt Paste. That was self-explanatory.
There was something resembling a miniature turkey baster. He found clothes, itty-bitty socks, a knit cap, a few rattles, two containers of formula, some bottles, and a small booklet with doctor’s visits listed in it. He recognized the writing as his sister’s and a strange, sad nostalgia settled over him.
Was she here watching him now? “He’s beautiful, Noel,” he whispered. “I’m gonna do this. Don’t worry. I’ll figure it out and I’ll take good care of him for you. You’ll see.”
By the time Duce returned Shane was reading the bottle of formula. “What’s that?” his friend asked as he plopped down the paper takeout bag of food.
“Formula. I didn’t find any food. Do you think I should wake him to eat?”
“Uh, isn’t there some rule about never waking a sleeping baby?”
Shane shrugged. “Maybe I should make up a bottle so it’s ready when he does wake. He’s been sleeping for two hours. He’s gotta be hungry.”
Shane wished he had Internet. He wasn’t really computer savvy, but people were always talking about finding shit online. Duce was staring at him with a peculiar look. “What?”
“I think you should give him back.”
“Give him back? There is no back. I’m it.”
“He’s just all perfect and small. What if you fuck him up?”
“Hey, don’t curse in front of him. And I’m not going to mess him up. I just need some practice. I’ll figure it out.”
“Maybe you should ask someone who has kids what to do.”
Shane reached for an egg roll. “I don’t know anyone with kids. I have to take a class and I have a crap load of reading material.”
“When do you take the class? Maybe that was something you should have done beforehand.”
“It starts tomorrow night. I’ll be fine.”
They ate and zoned out to some reality TV. Baby Shane was so quiet they’d almost forgotten about him. Then Duce’s face began to twitch. “Dude, what’s that smell?”
Shane sniffed and choked. Whatever it was, it was powerful enough to make his eyes water. “Aw man, did you fart?”
“Wasn’t me.”
In unison, they slowly turned to the baby who still slept soundly. He leaned over and sniffed, almost gagging as he jerked back. “Holy crap! How could something so pintsize smell that bad?”
Duce covered his mouth and went to the window, quickly opening it to let some air in. The little guy made a tiny nook-nook sound and his miniature fist curled up by his chin in a dainty stretch. He looked like the fighting Irish.
“It’s moving,” Duce whispered as though the baby were a bomb about to detonate. And suddenly an explosion happened.
Baby Shane’s face screwed up tight, turning an unnatural shade of red. His mouth opened wide, showing nothing but pink gums, and an unholy squawk roared out of him.
They jumped and stared as the baby screamed, his little chest working in quick breaths as he drew in only enough air to force out another shrill, squawking cry.
“Do something!” Duce demanded.
Shane panicked. He reached for the book and began to thumb through, not sure what he was looking for.
“Don’t fucking read! Pick it up!” Duce snapped.
Shane tossed the book on the couch and quickly kneeled in front of the angry baby. He wailed and Shane began to freak. Was he in pain? Ugh, the smell coming off of him was burning the back of his throat. “Sweet Jesus, he stinks!”
He quickly removed the soft blanket. Shane was strapped down with some sort of five-point harness a person needed a degree in engineering to figure out. He pressed buttons and undid latches, shaking with the urgent need to make him stop screaming.
Sweat seeped through the baby’s tiny cotton jumper. The closer he got the worse the stench became.
“I thought babies were supposed to smell good?” Duce said, fanning the front door to let some air in.
“So did I. I can’t figure out how to unbuckle him!”
“Hit the red buttons on the side. You gotta get the handle out of the way.”
Sweat trickled into his eyes as he tried to dismantle the carrier. Finally he had the harness undone. “Now what?”
“Pick it up!”
“He stinks!”
Duce scowled. “So, my ear drums are about to burst. You gotta get in there. Tough it out. Take one for the team!”
Shane carefully picked up the screaming baby. He held him in front of his chest like a potted plant. He was so incredibly light. “What now?”
“I don’t know. You’re the one who’s supposed to be Mr. Mom. Comfort it. Pat its back. Sing or something!”
Shane stood and awkwardly turned, swaying slightly. He didn’t want to shake him and break him. He sang the first song that came to his mind, wincing at the lyrics about loaded guns.
Duce’s mouth fell open. “Teen Spirit? Really? How about Rock-a-bye Baby?”
“I don’t know Rock-a-bye Baby. Nirvana’s the first thing that popped into my head.”
“It’s not really appropriate, Shane,” Duce said coolly as if he were suddenly more qualified than him with babies.
“You wanna try?”
“No, I’m set.”
He continued to sing Teen Spirit and eventually Baby Shane quieted. Blue eyes stared back at him and slowly the world began to settle.
Shane was sweating and Duce looked petrified.
“Hi,” Shane said. The baby blinked. “I’m your Uncle Shane.”
“I don’t think he can talk.”
“No shit, Sherlock.”
Buy Links:
www.LydiaMichaels.org
http://store.secretcravingspublishing.com/index.php?main_page=book_info&cPath=4&products_id=736&zenid=3a35226c8c546aac1f9dc4ba86c933a0
by Sarah | Oct 24, 2013 | Friday Dialogues, Guest Authors, Writing
Last February, I went back to my home town. This is the first time I returned home as a published author. My family and friends always knew I wrote poems and short stories but not many of them took it seriously. It was never something I talked about much before with them.
Even when I returned home, I never brought up writing. I guess I felt if they wanted to know more about it, they would ask me.
Some did ask me, mainly the same question. “I heard you are an author now. How is your book coming along?”
You would think as a writer, I would be able to answer the simple question but nothing came to mind. Ok so that is not completely true. The problem is my actual answer, is not exactly something people want to hear or understand. If they knew I could finish writing a novel in a month, if I wanted, they would be shocked and most likely think I was bragging. They want the romanticized answer. “I have spent years perfecting, my novel. I am still working on completing the final pieces.” People want to know it is hard because not everyone can imagine writing a complete book.
Occasionally, I would give them the truth, “The book is going great and is now finished; actually I now have five titles out and am working on three more projects.” I found when I said this most people became quiet and ended our conversation.
More discoveries…
I also learned most of my friends and family believed being an Author was more profound than being a Writer. I believed this as well until; I saw a post on Facebook that said “Writers Write”. Funny one quote picture on social media could change someone’s outlook on their dream.
A writer is always writing and working on their craft. An author is someone who has written past tense and sadly stops with one novel. It takes time and preparation and innovation and training to get past the myths society puts on writing novels. Most writers and readers never get past the myths and thus remain authors instead of writers.
What are the Differences?
A Writer writes.
An Author has written.
Simple, right? Nope. Writers are Authors most of the time but Authors rarely are Writers. Confused, yet?
Here is an example…
I am the Author of Whispers in the Storm, Blood Myth, and Sekhmet’s Revenge. I will always be an author no matter if I write again or not. Those works are out there for the world to read, buy, and review. However, if I never write again I am no longer a writer. I must continue to write to be a writer.
Writers are always focused on their current project or the next novel.
Writers are focused on what is next, the future.
Authors are focused on the past, what they have already written.
Today it is very easy to get published with small presses and indie publishing. This is an amazing time to be an Author and a Writer.
An Author strives to finish their work. Their “masterpiece”. Their “baby.” Once it is completed, the novel has been through editors, beta readers, and finally has the perfect cover.
Now, it is time for the Author to make a choice. They can go with the traditional and more accepted route, sending it to an agent or publisher or they can join the new era of indie publishing. The choice is up to the author; neither is wrong but must make sense for the individual.
Fast forward…
Choice has been made, the author then goes straight to making sure their time and work is not wasted, by promoting their finished work.
Twitter, Facebook, Blogs, and on and on the promotional monster begins. Promotion is all the Author thinks about now. They must get their work out to the masses, after all it is their “baby”, it deserves the time of promoting and nurturing to make it successful.
So now the Writer becomes the Author, all of their writing time becomes promoting time.
A Different Choice…
Finished! Yes! Off to editor and beta readers, now it is time for the next project.
Edits are back, cover is finished, and Writer does a blurb, gets the book on buying sites but continues to write the new story. Book is indie published quickly and Writer goes back to work on next project, finishing it and getting it proofed while he starts the next project.
Writers after the initial announcement of the book and posting on websites do not promote like Authors. There simply is no time in a Writer’s mind to do such things. The next novel is their only focus. Writing time is more valuable than promotion of an old book.
Writers are inclined to believe their own writing is their best promotion, so they remain a Writer.
A simple break down of things I noticed in my own world…
Writers are people who write the next story.
Authors are people who promote their last story.
Writers receive feedback from simply writing and finishing stories.
Authors receive feedback from sales, promotions, and reviews.
In the new age of indie publishing Writers are going to be told there are ways they must handle their career to be successful. When in reality a Writer, only has to write, unless they want to become solely an Author.
We all must decide why we write.
Do you write to be published, to become famous, or accepted by the industry? If this is why you write then you are an Author.
I am not saying praise and acceptance from peers isn’t a great feeling. It is an amazing feeling but if everyone hated your work would you continue to write? That is the question. If you would not continue then you are an Author. You become a has been… Someone who has simply written past tense.
On the other hand do you write because worlds develop in your mind and you must get them out? Do you love the excitement you get of telling stories? Will you write if everyone hates every word you type? Then you are most likely a Writer.
Can you be both?
YES! The most successful in the field are both but never let the promoting beast take your writing time. The best promotion for any Author or Writer is their next book.
*~*
| [amazon_link id=”B00C6Q0XGW” target=”_blank” container=”” container_class=”” ]Amazon[/amazon_link] |
The Art of Safkhet Presents – Blood Myth
(The Myth Series)
Zakah Sange was born into a world of dark magick, always living in the shadows of his father, the Raka King. He was dangerously sexy and enigmatic; he used power and control to shape himself into a hard and cunning man. Zakah became a warrior, a weapon and the master of his own violence lurking within.
Sorina Ruzicka was the great granddaughter of the evil god Akhekh. She was born into a legacy of magickal gifts that she wanted no part of. After years touring as a blues singer she returned home where she only wanted the seclusion of the mountains. A chance meeting with the mysterious club owner forced Sorina into the battle of her life.
Can a willful witch, accept the controlling nature of a demon who demands submission? Trusts will be tested, lines will be crossed and a fate neither of them expected will be played out.
Author Bio Author Website
Stacy (SAM) was born in West Virginia but now finds herself living in Texas. She has loved writing since the first grade when she completed her first book, The Land without Rules. Her mother will tell you it was a brilliant book.
Throughout her school years she was in journalism and has been an avid reader of all literature. She has always craved the feeling of discovering an author’s world for the first time. Now she devotes her time to creating her own worlds. Stacy focuses mainly on paranormal romance and poetry. She loves creating dominant male characters and headstrong females for her books.
Stacy now finds herself on a new journey and finally has taken the leap to go after her dreams. She recently finished a poetry book, Whispers in the Dark with two fellow authors and finished her first novel Blood Myth in her Myth Series.
Excerpt
Outside her cottage, the wind rose and whirled fiendishly. Rain pelted at her windows. Sorina wrapped her arms around her up drawn knees, resting her head on them. She felt his emotions. She sensed his need and what he wanted her to understand, but she didn’t understand.
“Sorina.” Zakah made sure his voice was warm, sensual, caressing, velvety, and soothing. “Don’t try to understand, my little rabbit.” He could feel her anguish even though she tried to hide it with her stubborn chin and defiant eyes.
A shadow flickered from a candle. Her eyes followed the shadow. She gasped up at his tall, dark, well-muscled frame which appeared out of nowhere. Sorina stammered, looking up at him towering over her. “What are you doing here?”
She looked like a scared rabbit. He never felt regret or pity, but to know he was the cause of her fear broke his heart. Zakah couldn’t stop himself; he did something he had never done in all his long years. He wanted to give comfort, take away her fears. Zakah gathered her into his arms, imprisoning her against his hard chest. “Breathe, Sorina. It will help.”
She pushed against the wall of his chest. “Let go of me. I am not a child who needs to be cradled or spanked.” She emphasized the last word.
Zakah ignored her struggle to pull away from him. He held her close to his chest, his hand stroking over her back slowly. He buried her face in the wealth of her luxurious hair, breathing in the sweet scent of citrus.
Sorina found the strength to pull back from his embrace. “I saw you. I felt you when you were using that rod on that woman. You were imagining she was me.” Her breath caught in her throat when he threaded his fingers through her hair. Zakah gripped her scalp in his strong hands, yanking her head back and the look in his eyes seared her to the bones.
He lowered his head, his mouth inches from her plump lips, so that she could feel the warmth of his breath on her skin. “Yes, I did imagine she was you. I wanted her to be you. I needed her to be you.”
Sorina was silent. She started to tremble in his arms. He knew his words were beginning to sink in. Zakah took in the sad shadows and fear lingering in her large, golden green eyes.
Her heart was pounding. “I want you to leave.” She pushed at the wall of his chest.
He merely tightened his hold on her. Zakah could not hide the bit of enjoyment he was getting from her struggle. “You do not want me to go, Sorina.”
“Yes, I want you to go, Zakah.” His smug look of amusement infuriated her, making her work to keep her voice under control.
“You are safe with me, Sorina. I would not allow anyone or anything to harm you.”
She swallowed nervously, whispering defiantly, “Just you.”
by Sarah | Oct 23, 2013 | Character Interview, Guest Authors, Thursday Tell All, Writing
Come on in and sit down for a visit with Sara Alderson, an ordinary woman with an extraordinary talent. I love how down to earth she is, and I think you will too.
*~*
What is your story?
Do you want the short version? The weird talent that I don’t know why I have, and which I never asked for, keeps leading me into trouble, and sometimes it lands me in the hospital or nearly gets me killed. But I’ve been able to use it to help people and save lives, so I guess I can’t complain too much about it.
Who are you?
What time is it? If it’s between eight AM and five PM, I’m a doctor. At five, I become a chauffeur. From seven until nine, I’m a mother. From nine until bedtime, I’m a zombie. For a half hour after we get to bed, I’m a wife. When my brother Bob calls for advice on whatever their two-year-old is getting up to, I’m a sister. When Beth has had a stressful week at her job and she needs a sympathetic ear, I’m a best friend. When I’m at work and I haven’t had time to fix myself lunch and Mom brings me something to eat, I’m a daughter.
It sounds like I’ve got multiple-personality disorder, doesn’t it? Still, I wouldn’t change a thing about my life, and I guess ultimately that’s who I am: the woman who’s all of those things, and glad to be them.
Do you think the author portrayed you accurately?
I think so. Even when I’m doing something that’s reckless or stupid, or I’m having a really bad day, he puts me in a pretty sympathetic light. And while I wish he’d leave me alone when I’m – well, when I’m having “private time” with my husband, at least he has the decency to be very discreet in how he describes it. I shudder to think how that “Shades of Gray” woman would write about me, so I guess I should be thankful for small favors.
Do you have any special strengths?
I think most people would say my talent for dreaming – for stepping into other people’s dreams. But I’d say that it’s my compassion – I enjoy helping people, whether it’s patients coming to my office, or friends and family, or the people whose dreams I see. Brian, my husband, says that’s why I have the dreams in the first place, because even when I’m sleeping, I can’t help looking for people who are hurting or in trouble and reaching out to them.
Do you have any special weaknesses?
I can be pretty slow to realize things, especially dealing with interpersonal relations. I guess that comes from my childhood. I was always more interested in my microscope and my chemistry set than in playing with friends, or chatting on the phone or any of that. So sometimes I don’t notice things that are blindingly obvious to other people.
What are you afraid of?
Abusing my power, and hurting someone with it. I used my dreaming talent to help my godmother last year, but I had to interfere in her dream to do it. I was able to change her mind from the inside-out, and she had no idea that it was me. That’s such a dangerous power, and even though I only had good intentions, I could still have done horrible damage to her. I’m afraid I’ll find myself in a situation like that again, where I feel like I have to do it to help someone I love – and I’ll make things worse instead.
Who is your true love?
My husband. I knew it the first time I met him, too. I know that’s a cliché, but it’s really true for me – for us. Our eyes met, and that was it. I was done for.
Do you have any hobbies?
I wish I had time for some! Between my job, the kids and keeping up with everything, I barely have time to breathe most days. When I do have free time, what I want to do most of all is just sit down and rest – or, maybe, if I’m really lucky, take a nice, long, completely undisturbed bubble bath.
Name five items in your purse, briefcase, or pockets.
A small bag of lollipops (I’m a pediatrician, and I’ve got four kids. I’m NEVER without candy!); my stupid cell phone, which I really and truly hate having to carry around; the key to our safe-deposit box; a photo of my old dog, Lumpy (I know we’ve got a new dog, and I love her, too, but I still miss Lumpy and I always will); and a pocket calendar that I try to keep up to date (I know I should get some kind of electronic device to help me, but I really don’t like carrying around all those gadgets).
What is your most prized mundane possession?Why do you value it so much?
The emerald necklace Brian gave me for our first Christmas, only a few weeks after we met. He took the money he was saving up to buy a used car, and spent it to buy this beautiful necklace for me. It sets off my eyes perfectly, and that’s why he picked it out. It’s just symbolic of the love he has for me, and there’s nothing that could be more valuable than that.
What was your family like?
Growing up, my family was the best. My parents were so good to us, and good for us. They trusted me, and my brother, and they gave us plenty of responsibility – and also freedom. We’re really trying to do the same for our children.
I’ll admit that, as a kid, I didn’t get along all that well with my brother. I’m four years older, and at first I wanted to trade him in for a dog. But by the time we were both in college, either I matured, or he got less weird (maybe both) and we get along wonderfully now.
The only real regret I have about my family is that I only was able to know one of my grandparents. Both of my grandfathers died before I was born, and my father’s mother passed away when I was a baby, so it was only my Mom’s mother, Grandma Lucy, that I ever knew. My children are a lot luckier, they’ve got all four grandparents, and they ought to have them for a long time to come.
What is something you had to learn that you hated?
That sometimes, no matter my training, no matter how much I want to, there are some people I can’t save, and some pains I can’t ease. I learned that my first year of medical school, when my friend Janet’s mother passed away. I stepped into Janet’s dreams, and that’s how I found out how sick her mother was. And I had to carry that around, because I couldn’t very well tell Janet that I knew this secret she hadn’t told anyone. And, even worse, there wasn’t a thing I could do to help her, really. It was awful, but it was a lesson I had to learn.
What is more important – sex or intimacy? Why?
Intimacy, obviously. What’s the point of having sex without it, anyway? How could it be any good, if you don’t love the person you’re making love to?
What one act in your past are you most ashamed of? What one act in your past are you most proud of?
Ashamed of? The time I broke into one of my teachers’ offices back in medical school. I had a good reason – he was one of several people I suspected of trying to poison another teacher at the school. I’m not so much ashamed of the act, though. What I’m ashamed of is that I didn’t tell Brian before I did it. I knew he’d try to talk me out of it, and I just didn’t want to hear that.
Proud of? It’s not one single act, but I’d say it’s the way our kids have turned out so far. I’ve really tried to be honest with them in every way possible, and to give them the same values I was raised with, and I think I – well, Brian and I together – have succeeded so far.
What trait do you find most admirable, and how often do you find it?
Is an ounce of prevention really worth a pound of cure? Which is more valuable? Why do you feel this way? As a doctor, I have to say that, yes, prevention is definitely the way to go. But it’s true in every part of life. I’ve seen it with my kids. Taking the time to tell them the truth, and to explain things to them rather than just saying “no” or “because I said so” has made such an impact on them. We’ll see if that keeps up when they’re teenagers, though!
What one word best describes you?
Compassionate, I hope. I think it’s true, anyway.
How do your friends see you?
As someone they can rely on, and who won’t judge them, no matter what’s happening. And also as someone who’ll do whatever it takes to help them when they’re in need. And finally, as someone who, sometimes, will call on them in turn, because I always seem to find myself in situations where I can’t solve the problem alone and I need a lot of help, sometimes in very strange ways.
How do your enemies see you? Enemies? I hope I don’t have any! But if I do, they ought to see me as someone who won’t let them get away with hurting the people I care about, no matter what it takes to stop them.
What, if anything, haunts you?
The night I spent in jail, after my (former) office manager stole my prescriptions pads and sold them, and I was arrested for it. I was violated, and I don’t want to talk about it any more than that. That memory still haunts me, and the feelings of total powerlessness haunt me, and the fact that I let myself give in to all of that haunts me most of all. I threw away hope, and after only a couple of hours, I began to believe what they wanted me to believe – that I was worthless and deserved to be treated the way I was.
*~*~*~*
| [amazon_link id=”B00EPSIIAW” target=”_blank” container=”” container_class=”” ]Amazon[/amazon_link] |
“Oh, God! We can hurt each other. Whatever we do to each other in the dream, we’ll do it to ourselves for real…”
When her own dreams are visited by a mysterious woman in a red dress, Sara realizes she has something she never expected: a counterpart, someone outside her family who shares her talent to see other people’s dreams.
When the woman in red keeps showing up in other dreams as well, leaving ruined lives in her wake, Sara knows she has something she never imagined: a nemesis.
Now, Sara must track the woman in red down in the waking world, before she’s forced to fight for her life in her dreams…
“Waking Dream” is the exciting fifth novel in the “Dreams” series.
J.J. (James) DiBenedetto was born in Yonkers, New York. He attended Case Western Reserve University, where as his classmates can attest, he was a complete nerd. Very little has changed since then.
He currently lives in Arlington, Virginia with his beautiful wife and their cat (who has thoroughly trained them both). When he’s not writing, James works in the direct marketing field, enjoys the opera, photography and the New York Giants, among other interests.
The “Dreams” series is James’ first published work.
http://www.writingdreams.net
http://www.amazon.com/author/jjdibenedetto
excerpt:
As Sara watches her husband, her heart swells with pride as the Air Force delegation – including, Sara now notices, a General – enthusiastically follows along with him. But in the midst of his success, Sara suddenly feels a chill, as though someone opened a window and let a draft of cold air into the room.
But there is no window open, and even if there were, this is the middle of summer; any air that came in would be hot and stagnant. Sara turns, and a glass door leading out into the hallway is closing, although she didn’t see or hear it open.
Just for an instant, Sara thinks she sees someone just as they disappear down the hallway and around a corner – a woman, she’s sure. But she didn’t get a good look; the only thing she can recall for sure is the color red. Red shoes, and a red dress.
As she turns her attention back to Brian and his meeting, she wonders why he’s dreaming about a woman in a red dress, who has to run away the moment Sara notices her…
***
Where’d she go? There was someone, I wanted – needed – to know who she was, where she was going.
It was a dream. Brian’s dream. And there was a woman, a woman in a red dress. He was dreaming about a woman. A woman who isn’t me…
No, that’s not right. That’s insane. Brian has never, ever given me the slightest reason to be jealous, and he never will. Except – I was there, in his dream, and he had to hide her from me. Right? I was watching him give his presentation, everyone in the room was completely focused on it, they were all sitting there, mesmerized.
And then the door to the meeting room opened. Someone inside the room opened it. That woman, with her red? – yes, definitely a red dress. And red shoes, with at least two-inch heels. Not Brian’s type at all – nobody is his type, except me.
But she wasn’t sitting at the table. There were a bunch of his co-workers, all men, all wearing suits. And there were a bunch of Air Force officers, and they were all wearing their uniforms. Nobody in a dress at all.
Until there was. And nobody else seemed to notice her. Nobody even looked up for a second to see who was opening the door.
“Brian?” I grab his shoulder, shake him awake. It’s three-thirty in the morning, but I have to know.
“Wha?”
“You were dreaming. Just now.”
“Let’s take a quick break,” he mutters. He’s still mostly there.
“Brian!”
He turns to me, his eyes slowly focusing. “Quick break,” he murmurs again, then he finally realizes he’s not at work. “Sara?” Fear suddenly spreads across his face. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I say, too quickly. Now he looks terrified. “Just – you were dreaming. Can you remember?”
He rolls over onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. “I was – uh, in a room, a big glass room. Giving – I was doing my presentation. You know, the one I’ve been working on.”
“I know. I was there.” Now the fear vanishes, and it’s replaced by puzzlement. “Do you remember who was there?”
“Didn’t you see? Sara, what’s going on?”
“Humor me,” I say softly, running a hand through his hair, trying to calm him – and myself.
“Uh – just my team. Rick and Alex and Joe and Dave. And there were four – no, five people from the Air Force. General Kelley was there, and the rest of them were his aides.” He sits up, and so do I. He’s staring hard at me. “Sara, I don’t understand.”
Neither do I – except that I think I do, and I’m afraid to say it. It’s impossible – but it’s impossible for me, too, and I can still do it. “There wasn’t anybody else?”
“No. That was it, just who I said.”
I’m staring hard right back at him, holding his eyes. “You’re sure? Nobody else? Not a woman in a dress, a red dress?”
He has no idea what I’m talking about; I can see it all in his eyes. “No. Why would you think…?” His jaw drops. “No. You don’t mean what I think you mean?”
“I saw her, but you didn’t. Nobody else in the room did, either. The same way that you didn’t see me, and neither did anybody else. The way nobody ever notices me.”
We’re both silent for a moment, then we speak the same words, exactly in unison: “Oh, my God…”
by Sarah | Oct 21, 2013 | Guest Authors, Top Ten Tuesday, Writing
I’ve adored the Legend of Sleepy Hollow since I was a willowy, knobby-kneed third-grader as skinny as Ichabod Crane himself. So it was no surprise that I’d one day write a novel based on that legend.
Over time, there’ve been lots of tellings, retellings, and odd adaptations. One of the best came in 1999 when [amazon_link id=”B00AEBB9V4″ target=”_blank” container=”” container_class=”” ]Tim Burton[/amazon_link] released his version, and Ichabod transformed from scarecrow to scrumptious. But could there ever be another Crane as gorgeous as Johnny Depp? Ahem. Turns out, yeah. Fox has gifted us with the new series, “[amazon_link id=”B00F91FQZO” target=”_blank” container=”” container_class=”” ]Sleepy Hollow[/amazon_link].” And it’s so farfetched and implausible, I knew it’d be great fun.
So here are the Top Ten reasons “Sleepy Hollow” makes me lose my head.
10. Ichabod’s Coat. It’s just old and scrappy enough to be its own character. When they resort to clothing him in modern attire, that coat had better stay!
9. Time Travel. Crane is transported to the 21st century and must learn the ways of technological age. Not so smooth. It’s like teaching your mom how to take a selfie.
8. Tom Mison. Uh…just look at him.
7. The Apocalypse. The Four Horseman, two witnesses, and seven years to stop it. So we get at least seven seasons, right? The Winchesters and Buffy had their shot. Now the end of days has come to Sleepy Hollow.
6. The Village of Sleepy Hollow- Population 144,000. A place whose apocalyptic population sounds more like a town than a village. But with such a great atmosphere…who’s counting?
5. Lt. Abbie Mills. She’s a woman with authority, a gun, and a “get outta my face” attitude. Cute and kickass…a winning combination.
4. Terminator-style Headless Horseman. Badass? Yeah. He’s Death himself, as in The Four Horseman. Sure he can slice a head or two with a saber, but give him a semi-automatic and watch out!
3. Ichabod’s Amazing Expressions. The man is displaced in time and his introduction to this new age is one of the most adorable things to grace the small screen. You just want to kiss that boyish face.
2. History and Mystery. Who knew our founding fathers were so cryptic? Okay, Dan Brown and Nicholas Cage, that’s who. But still. This show’s a cocktail of historical twists.
1. Ichabod Crane. A 250-year-old dead guy who can get our tingly parts twitching. He’s wise, witty, sexy and smooth – all why wearing clunky boots and a high collar coat. I’ll take two please.
SEVERED – A Tale of Sleepy Hollow
By Dax Varley
| [amazon_link id=”B00EIS9CFO” target=”_blank” container=”” container_class=”” ]Amazon[/amazon_link] |
Blurb:
Katrina’s still haunted by her encounter with the Headless Horseman – the night he beckoned to her. Now he has risen again, slashing heads and terrorizing the quiet countryside.
Her only joy during this dismal darkness comes when Ichabod Crane, a gorgeous young man from Connecticut, moves to Sleepy Hollow and their attraction turns to romance.
When the Horseman marks Ichabod as his next victim, Katrina, despite dangerous efforts to save him, sees no other choice than for them to flee.
But the Horseman awaits. Now it’s up to her to sever the horror and alter the Legend of Sleepy Hollow.
*~*
Excerpt:
1790…Then
The Horseman…he is real. He came for me.
I sat, gazing out my chamber window. A ground mist had collected, hovering over the glen. Then I heard him, distant at first, approaching within the fog. His race with the night thundered a rhythm. My heart drummed to each beat.
Within moments, I saw him – a headless outline of black within a gray cloud. As though sensing my eyes upon him, he slowed his phantom steed, circling once. The horse reared, pawing the haze. The Horseman quickly drew his sword and sliced the air.
I dropped down below the windowsill, my breath coming in shallow gasps. Had I doomed myself by daring to peek? I quivered, hugging my knees.
He is not real. He is not real.
Moments passed. Then slowly, I inched to the edge of the sill. Hiding in the shadows, I moved the curtain just a whisper.
The Horseman was still there, but now he’d turned…toward my window. My heart hammered and my blood ran as cold as the Hudson River.
He knows I’m watching.
His hand reached out – beckoning…inviting …bewitching me. A gray breath of evil played upon my neck, and my name wafted through the mist.
Katrina.
I struggled against the force that summoned me, tightening every muscle, every nerve, refusing to move an inch. My body quaked, but I kept my mind as sharp as The Horseman’s blade. I will not come. I will not.
Still he remained. No wind. No stars. Just the ivory fog. And that hand…
Katrina.
When I thought I couldn’t hold back a second more, he spurred his massive steed. And like a midnight blast, he flew, charging across the countryside.
I collapsed, trembling, heaving. Finding strength, I crawled upon my bed. I dared not move. I dared not sleep. I lay within my quilt, knotted in fear.
The Horseman …he is real. He came for me. And I knew not when he’d return.
