By Alicia J. Love

Young Adult Fiction has always brought us wonder, imagination, and magic. Whether the books are about struggling teens trying to find themselves or young people with special powers and magnificent destinies, young adult fiction is a wonderful way to open yourself up to the possibilities and impossibilities in the world.

Young adult fiction is not just for the young, or even just for the young at heart. Young adult fiction is a great way to reintroduce those caught up in the chaos of adulthood back into the wonder and innocence that was our childhood.

As an adult, stress, responsibilities, and chaos are simply a part of our daily lives. Why not sit down with a good book and lose ourselves in a land of discovery, magic, and imagination? Young adult fiction can take us away from the woes of the modern world and into the past, the present, or even the future. It can show us the powers of witches and wizards or even take us on a journey across the stars. No matter what age you are or your situation, you could benefit from reading a young adult fiction novel.

These books tell us stories of friendships and first loves, and what is was like to see and experience things for the first time. It is a great way to jump back into that innocence, to realize how hard the simple things used to be and learn to appreciate things more. A good book can teach us about the meaning of friendship, something most of us forget after a few years on our own.

When I was writing my first novel, REINCARNATION, which will be released soon, I had to look into my past a relive some of the best feelings in my life. I took bits and pieces of my first love, a connection which was so strong I don't think I will ever top it. I remembered how gullible I was and how much my life was filled with wonder. I remembered how, as a child, I truly believed that magic was real and that I had a great destiny. During the process of writing REINCARNATION, I think I was the most inspired since grade school. Young adult fiction really can bring back the best of our childhoods and make us believe again.Young adult fiction can show you how to love again, rekindle the old flames of youth in your heart, and you can learn from them, learn things over again that you thought you already knew.  The next time you are at the bookstore, the library, or browsing on your kindle, see if there is anything that might strike a fire inside you once more.


Alicia J. Love is a new author of the Young Adult SciFi/Fantasy book series The Seven Uniters. The series follows a young woman who has an absolutely magnificent destiny. For more information about her and her upcoming series, check out AliciaJLove.com. Also, follow her Twitter account: @AliciaJLove7 and check her out on Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/AliciaJLove7 

-- by Jams N. Roses

For most readers, choosing what to read next is a pleasure, and not a chore. You have the choice of reading the latest book from a favourite author, the next in a series maybe, or trying something new and reading a recommendation from a friend, perhaps in a genre that you’d otherwise not have given a chance.

As a writer, deciding what to write isn’t always as pleasant or as easy an experience.

Charts will tell you that romance novels and thrillers are always popular, people love them, but then with all the other writers in those genres, is there any more room for little old me? With all the other stories already told involving love affairs, broken hearts, and races to save the day, can I bring anything new to the table?

Maybe I should write about what I know? That’s age old advice for new writers so there must be some truth to it. But what is it that I know, that others need or want to read about? Why is my life or opinion so interesting?

I am a listener, a watcher, a thinker, and I notice things that others don’t because I see them through my own eyes, I’ve lived through situations that others haven’t. This is my skill; this is what I bring to the table.

I have friends who can walk into a bar, spark a conversation with anybody and talk absolute nonsense on any subject, whether they are clued up on it or just ‘blagging’ their way through. I’m the quiet guy who doesn’t speak until spoken to directly, and even then I stutter and grow red on the cheeks. Maybe after a couple of pints of ‘confidence’ I can stick my neck on the line and start a conversation with new friends or near-strangers, but only once the barriers have been broken down already. I believe the qualities that abandon me in social situations actually leave me better equipped in other ways.

I am a listener, a watcher and a thinker, but I am also shy and timid, which means I need a medium to express my views, my thoughts and my humor. Cue the pen and paper or the laptop… I’ve got something to say.

After completing two novels, I must admit that I still have trouble committing to a genre, other than contemporary fiction, which is such a large umbrella it would be hard not to stand under it.

I write about life.

It could be my life, the life of a friend or the man in front of me at the desk of the job office. I am a fiction writer, but my writing is always born from something I have seen, heard or read about. A seed has been planted and blossomed into a character or plot that can then be built upon, added to and grown into a delicate, multi-layered web of stories, situations and personalities.

I do write about what I know, subjects I’ve touched upon are deceit, failure, crime, fortune, violence, hate, fear, addiction and of course, love. Are these the ingredients to an interesting life? Yes, but it’s sometimes painful too, and sometimes extremely exciting, and very often funny. All of which would explain why my books contain romance and thrills and mystery and crime and drama.

I may not always be able to pigeon-hole my work, this may limit the number of people willing to give up their valuable time and read my books, but I have finally found my voice, even if it lay silent on a page or screen. Happily, reviews so far for both novels have been favorable, so I feel following my heart and writing what I feel has been the correct decision.

Now, where to start with book number three?

--TM Souders

Life, much like writing, is a learning process. With each hiccup, each triumph, and each failure we become better, or at least that's the hope. Of course, a reader should never notice the struggle in the writing, and if they do, then perhaps the writer has not learned enough. Perhaps they are not quite doing their job. Life, on the other hand, is a bit different. Often people see our struggles before we can see them ourselves. I can particularly relate to that, but in my writing it is harder to ignore the truth. I recently decided to put my current work-in-progress on the back burner and start something new. I found a story that I am falling in love with. I've started writing it with relative ease and excitement, something that was missing from my previous project. I'm sure that I will return to the other manuscript, but for now, I'm doing what works. And so, I decided to share. It may not be the most riveting, heart palpitating scene, but I see where it is going. And it's good.

**Please keep in mind this is a rough draft, has not been looked at by an editor, or anyone other than the author for that matter. This work is not yet titled. **
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This is a work of fiction. All characters, places, events, and incidents are fictitious and products of the writer’s imagination. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. Copyright © 2013 by T.M. Souders


                                                     SCENE 1 - The Glover's Cove Saga                                 



The humidity cloaked Bertha’s skin. Her tank top and jean cut-offs stuck to her as she ran through the back-end of Glover’s Cove, with her best friend, Dawn, just a few paces behind her. The one hundred fifty acres extended clear into the woods and tree lines west of the property that bordered Lake Erie, settling into a small inlet. The family name, the property dubbed a little slice of heaven by locals, and that small arm of water gave the well-known residence the name Glover’s Cove.

                Bertha stumbled over a large tree root of an ancient maple, nearly falling before catching herself and regaining her balance. Without missing a step, she paused, tore off her wedges and threw them behind her while Dawn struggled to keep up. Her laughter carried through the trees, while her feet thumped over the bare earth. Her heart pounded hard in her chest, and her lungs screamed, but her legs moved faster yet, the muscles tightening and burning as she sprinted. A breeze tickled her skin, setting it on edge. The scent of fresh water and silt filled her nose as she pumped her arms. Just another couple yards and she would break through the thick trees into a sun-dappled clearing, where water met land. She was almost there.

                “Bertie Glover, you dirty beast you! You run like a boy!” Dawn shouted from behind her. But her friend’s epithets were of no use because she made the last leap over a fallen Oak, like a gazelle in the wild, landing on her bare feet and onto a mossy knoll. The tell-tale snapping of branches and rustling of leaves signaled Dawn’s approach. She had to hurry.

Bertha tore down her shorts in one clean swoop, kicking them off into the grass and leaving behind her tiny lace panties—the ones she hid from her parents in the back of her sock drawer. She may have been eighteen, but there were still some things better kept private . She took another step toward the water, while reaching up over her head and tearing her multi-colored tank top off first, then her bra. She paid no mind to where they landed as she threw them. In the next second, she leapt forward, her arms out in front of her, waiting and wanting the fresh, cool water to wash over her. And in the moments before she hit the water, she heard Dawn yell, “You dirty bitch! You’re faster than a fucking cheetah.”

                The warmth of the water glided over Bertha’s skin like silk. She extended her arms, until they nearly touched her head, and drew them back in tandem with the movement of her legs, like a frog. A trail of bubbles followed her as she slowly exhausted all of the air in her lungs. The run there had tired her and in only seconds—much too soon—Bertha rose to the surface panting. She turned around, treading water, and spotted Dawn, all graceful arms, long neck, and blonde hair, piled high on her head, slowly swimming toward her. Laughter rose from the back of Bertha’s throat as she took in Dawn’s annoyed expression.

                Dawn came to a stop three feet in front of her. “God, do you have to turn everything into a competition? We can’t just have a nice walk down to the lake. No, we have to sprint down and make it a race.”

Bertha screwed up her face and stuck out her tongue. “I can’t help it I’m faster.”

“Ha! Right. Faster, brighter, smarter, prettier, better built. Does the list ever end?”

Bertha cocked her head. “You have better breasts than me.” She nodded in the direction of Dawn’s ta-ta’s.

Dawn, always one to succumb to flattery, assessed Bertha with her scrupulous brown eyes, as if searching for sincerity before accepting the compliment. “Better? Yours are twice as big.”

“Twice as big, yes, but too big. Yours are perfect and round like little melons. They’ll be perky far longer than mine will. When I’m fifty and they’re down to my waist, yours will still be right up in your chest where they belong.” Bertha kept a straight face, knowing that this would appease the vain part of her friend.

Dawn pursed her lips and, after a moment, said. “Next time, I’m just gonna take my good ‘ol time and walk. Or better yet, turn back around and go get an ice cream or root beer float at Peach’s. Teach you a lesson. You’ll be waitin’ here all day, maybe even thinking I twisted my ankle somewhere back in those trees. Then you’ll have to come searching for me in your birthday suit. Maybe I’ll really teach you a lesson and send Randy Pheeny out here, tell him you had some trouble.” Dawn chuckled before her laughter turned into a rip-roaring keening. Tears pooled in her eyes as she continued. “Then he’ll come out here searching, trying to come to your rescue like he does, and lo and behold, imagine his surprise when he finds you wandering the grass, naked as a Jay.” Tipping her head back, Dawn’s laughter erupted once more through the inlet.

                Bertha glared at her, but a hint of a smile played on the corners of her mouth. “You’re so loud, all you’d have to do is yell from here and he’d come runnin’. No need to go searching for him.” In one quick movement, Bertha moved her arm and hand like a paddle and doused Dawn’s jubilant face with lake water, wetting some of her precious Goldilocks. Knowing better, Bertha quickly turned and retreated, swimming away as fast as she could amidst her laughter.

                Muttered curses trailed behind her. In seconds, Bertha knew that Dawn, a much faster swimmer, would be at her heels. She swam to the other side of the inlet, where it was shallow enough to stand, and sure enough, Dawn caught up to her just as her feet reached the muddy bank. Bertha took purchase on the earth and moved her arms in the water as hard as she could. But Dawn grabbed her through the deluge of water and dragged her in, splashing her at the same time. Bertha stood through a torrent of coughing and fought back. Both women grabbed at each other’s arms, splashing and pushing all the while laughing and choking through the spray of lake water. They finished in a fit of concession, both of them screaming “Truce,” and moved to the edge of the bank. They crawled out of the water and sat back on the silt, dangling their legs in the water and exposing their pale breasts and bellies to the warmth of the afternoon sun. The preening of a nearby seagull filled the silence in the cove, intermingling with only the sounds of the women’s breathing.

                “Holy shi—Oh my God, I’m sorry.” A deep voice called out from behind them. With a shriek, Dawn threw herself back in the water. Bertha turned to see a young man of about twenty-something, standing a few feet from the tree line. He turned his face, which took on a deep shade of scarlet, and stuttered his continued apologies, as his eyes darted from Bertha back to the side again.

Bertha couldn’t help it. She tipped her head to the sky, her long, wet hair tickling the middle of her back as she laughed.

“Bertie, get in here!” Dawn’s shrill voice yelled.

Bertha glanced back at the young man and took in his profile—tall and lean, but with a hint of muscle hidden beneath his beige pants and t-shirt. “You kno, if you’re that embarrassed and shocked by what you’ve seen, you should be keeping your eyes completely averted.”

The man ran a hand through his short blonde hair, then over his face. “You’re right. I am so sorry,” he said, waving one hand toward her, the other still over his face and covering his eyes.

“You know, this is private property!” Dawn yelled.

“I know. I’m sorry. I’m new to town, and I started taking a walk. I was just sightseeing. I must have gotten turned around.”

Bertha, always a bold person, and not one to squelch away from anything life had to offer, stood up and placed her hands on her hips. The weight of her large breasts, and the feel of the air over her bare, damp skin, made her only that much more aware of her current disposition. But something about the man’s complete and utter embarrassment left her wanting to shock him further.

“Well?” she asked. Her toes sunk into the mud, further grounding her in place. From behind her, she heard Dawn’s pleas to hide in the water. She could see the man’s restraint, as if he was forcing himself to keep his gaze away from her. After no answer, she asked again. “Well, what do you think of the view? It’s beautiful out here, don’t ya think?”

This mustn’t have been what the young man expected from her because his head whipped in her direction. “Yes, quite beautiful,” he said.

Bertha chuckled and raised one brow in question, before jumping back into the lake and disappearing beneath the murky waters.

So, today for the Muskie Attack tour I invited author G.M. Moore to have have a little fun with some word association. 

 Okay, here are your words... Go!
Marshmallow-- Fluff
Gold-- USA!
Triumph-- Rocky
Red-- Anger
Elk-- Silver Beach, Wis.
Pen-- Paper
Tire-- Flat
Bell-- Liberty
Gregarious-- Piper (my dog)

                                   THE BOOK

For Corbett Griffith III, divorce and two busy parents mean goodbye city life, hello great outdoors. With their busy Chicago careers and schedules, his parents just don't seem to have any time for him. When his mother sends him to his uncle's Wisconsin fishing resort for the summer, Corbett feels that there's no one pulling for him or caring what happens to him. 

But all of that changes at Whispering Pines Lodge, Corbett learns he is never really alone, thanks to his Uncle Dell, who takes care of him, and his new friend Pike, who pulls him into one mischievous adventure after another. It's a summer of change for ten-year-old Corbett--even his name changes, when a cute girl calls him "Griffy," a nickname he likes enough to keep.

When Griffy catches two elusive walleyes, he is surprised to discover how much he likes fishing. Eager to test his newfound skills, he and Pike are stunned to hear that a seventy-pound muskie is on the loose. They resolve to catch the ferocious fish, no matter what. For Pike catching a world record muskie would be about the sport. For Griffy it would be about something more. Maybe, just maybe, if he caught that fish is parents would take notice.


Think alligator. Think prehistoric beast. Think mean.

Will they be able to catch the muskie and stop it from attacking anyone or anything?

G. M. Moore is a former newspaper writer and editor. She grew up exploring the lakes of northern Wisconsin. During the summer months, this Chicago-area author can be found up north and out on the lake. Snakehead Invasion is the third book in the Up North Adventure series. You can learn more about her books at: http://www.upnorthadventure-series.com/jvbook/Home.html

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When I am out signing books or speaking to a group, I keep getting asked three questions over and over: What is your writing schedule (morning, afternoon, etc)? Where do you get your characters? and Is this a true story?

Behind the first question is a desire to know what sort of discipline I follow to get my work done. I think people are wondering whether I get writer’s block. I am an academic: I teach Spanish at Texas Christian University, better known as TCU, and I have plenty of responsibility that keeps me very busy. Most writers cannot hope to live from book sales, so we need a real “day job” to support our habit. College professors have summer off, if we want it, and a generous winter break between semesters. It’s a nice arrangement for me.

I get plenty of ideas for books and stories with alarming regularity and I am consequently left with more to write about than time to write it. So I write in summer and over winter break. Occasionally I do a little tidying up in the evenings after work. There is never enough time to write all I would like to. The upside is that I never have time for writer’s block. Another thing that helps is that I don’t block off a time of day in the summer and say, “Now I will write.” I go to the computer when and because I am driven to it and a have some free time.

As for characters, I have a great deal of fun writing about them. All writers get characters from life experience. They can’t be created out of nothing at all. But none of my characters are any person I know in particular. What happens sometimes is that a person I know inspires a character who shares some feature or characteristics of the model but who is also different in other ways. Sometimes the new character becomes the germ of a plot for a story or a book. At other times, I use people I have seen but do not know well and invent a life story for them and presto! There is another character. At times, when I already have some characters in mind but need friends, antagonists and/or foils for them, I will make somebody up with the characteristics I need. I use the Myers-Briggs personality inventory to make these characters coherent and believable. I don’t need that for the others.

Usually I don’t begin writing on a story or novel unless I have the main characters and some supporting ones sketched out, a strong sense of locale, and the main outlines of a plot. I know I’ve done a good job with the characters when they come alive on the page and make things happen I had not planned. If these elements have been imagined richly enough, the story begins to write itself.

The question “Is this a true story?” bothers me. I write fiction. That doesn’t mean the story isn’t real or that it doesn’t contain truth, just that the characters and story are my creation. Fiction can often tell truth more pointedly and effectively than non-fiction can. Ursula K. Le Guin said it beautifully in her introduction to the 1976 edition of The Left Hand of Darkness:

> Fiction writers desire to tell the truth: to know it, speak it, serve it. But they go about it in a peculiar and devious way, which consists in inventing persons, places, and events which never did and never will exist or occur, and telling about these fictions in detail and at length and with a great deal of emotion, and then when they are done writing down this pack of lies, they say, There! That’s the Truth!

> Fictional stories and novels address the deep-seated human longing for tales which we know did not happen, but which speak truth. They also deal with universal issues. Publishers and bookstores say they sell ten books of non-fiction for every book of fiction. This is a bad state of affairs, a symptom of and contributor to the dissolution of culture. So yes, my book is a true story, but it is fictional. You have asked the wrong question. The right question is: Is your book fiction or non-fiction?

My Angela series deals with responsible citizenship and what it can cost you. There will be three books, which follow the main character, Angela Fournier, through her 10th, 11th, and 12th grades. She has to face her parents’ divorce, which happens just before the series begins, a move to a new town, starting high school at an unfamiliar place, a school bully, a group of mean girls, and a hostile principal. She makes new friends and gets recognition as dancer, but when she and her friends uncover evidence of corruption at the school district administration, she begins to learn more than she ever envisioned. The first book, Angela 1: Starting Over is available at www.amazon.com/author/bedforddavid . The second book is scheduled to appear in the fall of this year (2013). And yes, it’s true and yes, it’s fiction.

One of the compliments I get most often in my never ending quest for glory and immortality is: “Wow! You are so creative!” Well, my friends, I’m going to let you in on a secret:

I’m not very creative. In fact…you are every bit as creative as me, or more so!

Some of you more egotistically inclined people already agree with me. To the rest of you, I’m going to prove it. In fact, I’m going to put my money where my mouth is:

I’ll make you a deal:

If you follow my instructions, you are going to have created the basis for a brand new story, worth writing, by the time you finish reading this blog post. If I’m right, (and I am) you have to rush over to Amazon.com to buy my book on writing, called How I are Becomed a Very Much Gooder Author ($8.99)
(Note: "How I are Becomed a Much Gooder Author" was penned under the pseudonym, Sevastian Winters.)

But, if I am wrong, then you can e-mail me and tell me so at harry@harrythehobo.com and I will send you a copy of my military thriller “Wolf’s Rise,” Absolutely free. (I’m counting on your honesty)

If you are willing to accept the terms of that deal, keep reading. If you aren’t, why are you reading this?

Let’s get started (Do not skim. Do not look ahead):

Story Formula

Pick a number between 1 and 4

Write your choice down on a piece of paper (Yes, paper! This isn’t enjoyment reading. There’s money on the line! And creativity is work!)

Pick a number between 1 and 12 (Yes, Yes! Write it down!)

Pick a number between 1 and 10

Pick a number between 1 and 10

Pick a number between 1 and 5

Pick a number between 1 and 4

Pick a number between 1 and 12

Pick a number between 1 and 10

Pick a number between 1 and 10

Got all your numbers? Okay Now…. Using the numbers you just wrote down:

Select the coinciding numbered item in the list of genders below to learn the gender of your protagonist. Write it down.

List of Genders

1. Male
2. Female
3. Neutral
4. Secret

Now again, using your list of pre-chosen numbers (stay in order), select, from the list of motivators below what your protagonist most wants in the world. Write it down.

List of motivators

1. To find true love
2. To avenge the death of a loved one
3. To find the holy grail
4. To find a missing child
5. To make a perfect omelette
6. To break free from an abusive relationship
7. To win a date with Eva Longoria
8. To get the job
9. To keep the job
10. To rescue a loved one
11. To rob a bad guy
12. To own a bakery

Now, use your next number to find out what is prohibiting the protagonist from having what they want, from the list of challenges below. (Don’t cheat. You chose your numbers in advance to make it random)

List of Challenges

1)  The protagonist is dead

2)  The protagonist is wheelchair-bound

3)  A debilitating stutter

4)  Agoraphobia

5)  An intrusive family member

6)  Only three weeks to live

7)  Paparazzi

8)  imprisonment

9)  About to lose their home

10)Mentally challenged

Every character has quirks. Apply the number you chose to the list of quirks below, to find out what makes your protagonist quirky.

List of Quirks

1)   nose picker

2)   uncontrolled flatulence

3)   fear of the color purple

4)   in love with cow print

5)   compelled to take pictures

6)   has Tourette Syndrome

7)   right eye twitches when nervous

8)   compulsive gambler

9)   likes to pop other people’s pimples

10)  Loves cats, but deathly afraid of kittens

Now it’s time to find out when the story happened. Same deal from the list below:

Times and places

1. France, 1648
2. Chicago, 1974
3. Haiti, Present Day
4. Key West Florida, 2037
5. The DMZ, 1950

Okay….. now…. Characters need best friends…. even if they don’t end up being in the story, so

Align your next number with the list of genders.

Now the list of motivators

Now the list of challenges

Now the list of quirks

Okay…. You have the basis now, of what your story will be made of. In my case, I ended up just now with the following:

In my case, I have a female protagonist that wants the job, but is having trouble getting it because she only has 3 weeks to live. She’s afraid of the color purple and the story takes place in present day Haiti. Her best friend, also female, wants to own a bakery, but since she’s agoraphobic, she finds that rather difficult. And she’s a major shutterbug.

Your list is, I’m sure, different. But knowing these things about my characters, it’s time to find the story. I rarely find it on the first pass. Now, I have to caution you: Your story may or may not include every element that we just found. The goal of this exercise is not to find that story, but a story. Sometimes it’s lurking somewhere close by. It’s our job to find it.

Michelangelo was credited with claiming that sculpting is easy. “You just chip away everything that isn’t the sculpture.” So it is with story.

Given my parameters I’m working with, the first thing I want to know is more!

So I am going to start asking questions. The first question I want to know is “Why is she dying?” Is she sick? Is she on death row? The answers won’t necessarily lead me to my story, but they might. Also, what sort of job does a person want if she’s only got three weeks to live? I can presume that she knows how much time she has, because it’s presenting a problem for her in getting what she wants. As I start eliminating options, options become more clear. Does my protagonist’s storyline intersect with that of her best friend? If so, to what degree? If not, why not?

By the way, I’m just thinking out loud here. Asking questions is part of the process of creative action.

So far (and this may not be where I end up) I’m thinking that probably the protagonist and her best friend are sisters…. The protagonist, is on death row and a film crew is coming to town to talk to Haiti’s death row inmates. She’s never been able to tell her story, and this is her chance! Moreover, the interview comes with payment for the family of the inmate…enough money for her sister to buy the permits and equipment to start a bakery from home…. (I don’t know… I’m just spit-balling) but now, I’m intrigued. I want to know more. Maybe you do too.

But nevermind that, What about your story? You know… the one on the piece of paper in front of you. We still have work to do.

I have to make this fair…because, after all, we made a deal. So look away from the monitor and think through the questions related to your story formula parameters. Set a timer and come back to this article in 15 minutes. Spend those fifteen minutes asking the questions that you need to ask in order to eliminate what’s not story… and to find what is. Time starts NOW.

..

…

….

…..

Has it been 15 minutes? If not, why are you reading this? Go find your story! If ithas been 15 minutes, read on———->

Okay, my friend, the time of truth has come. It’s just you, me and our mutual trust

Did you find something fun, and worthy of writing? (I suspect you did) If so, pay up!

CLICK HERE to get your copy of How I are Becomed a Very Much Gooder Author

and if not, (and I will be surprised to see my e-mail light up) e-mail me at harry@harrythehobo.com and claim your pot. Fair is fair.

See? I told you that you’re just as creative as me! Creativity isn’t a character trait. It’s the result of action. Anyone can be creative. It just takes work. Thanks for reading!

Harry

P.S. Please, if you had fun with this exercise, Tweet it around and share on Facebook!!

You can visit Harry's site here to read more about him and his work: http://harrywiddifield.blogspot.ca/

--by Danielle Forrest

I had a eureka moment this morning while driving in my car.  I love those moments.  I hate when they happen while I am in the car.  I want to write it down, but I can't.  My brain runs over the idea again and again in my head as I try to keep all of the key details in my short term memory so that by the time I get to my destination, I will be able to blast it all out of my skull and into my iPad.  It's a good story.  I think it has a lot of potential.  It will keep the reader guessing and it will blow you right out of the water about halfway through.  I can't wait to start working on it.

After the fact, I think back and realize, from the moment my brain came up with the looney idea (and of course it's looney, I write paranormal stories), I don't remember a single detail of the drive.  And this isn't that unusual (happens to me all the time).  I rarely remember the details of my drives.  I get so absorbed in the world in my head that the details around me simply become secondary in my notice.  Though I consider myself a good driver (great really, I'm always avoiding other drivers' moronic moves - FYI, I live in NC so that should be explanation enough), I can't help but think this doesn't bode well for the other drivers/inanimate objects on the road/side of the road.  I have yet to cause an accident in a fit of literary genius but I wonder if other writers have.  

I could just imagine a writer driving down the road and coming up with the perfect story idea or suddenly that scene you've been having so much trouble with is corrected in a beam of beautiful light.  Oh!  You start digging in your purse for your voice recorder.  You have to get this down.  You're pulling the wheel to the right as you reach but manage to keep it mostly between the lines.  Ah hah!  Voice recorder.  You turn it on, glancing down to find the stupid button and SMASH!  CRUNCH!  SCREECH!  And lots and lots of horn blaring.  Oops...

To learn more about this blogger/author, you can visit her site at http://theeternalscribe.weebly.com/

**This book is not a part of Worldwind Virtual Book Tours. Thus, it is not endorsed by The Serious Reader.

READER REVIEW:  “Time Killer” is definitely one of those books that once you start reading it, you don’t want to put it down until you’ve finished the whole thing. The story starts off with a super creepy opening that sets the tone for the rest of the book. I like that we are able to see the crimes as they take place, along with Max and Jessie as they try to get to the bottom of things. And there are some interesting twists along the way! A nice addition to the genre, and fans of murder mysteries and police dramas should grab it for sure." --Stacy Decker






                                  THE BOOK


In the small city of Rockton, Illinois, someone is tired of waiting. He’s tired of standing in line at the grocery store and tired of waiting at the drive-through line. Now he’s doing something about it.

The first murder rocks the city. The entire Bjornson family—except the father, Stephen—has been brutally murdered, and the killer has left a message behind, written in the victim’s blood: Don’t Waste People’s Time. It’s a grizzly start for two young detectives who’ve just become partners. But Max Larkin and Jesse Fairlane put their personal distaste for each other aside and start concentrating on how to find the killer from striking again.

As they investigate the scene of the crime and interview Stephen at the hospital, the clues slowly begin to add up. Could this be a deranged killer who struck ten years ago and has now returned to the area? Before they can answer that question, another murder is reported, and Max and Jesse suddenly realize they have a serial killer on the loose. 
But as they get closer to the truth, a past memory begins to haunt Max, one that might lead to a break in the case—or the end of his career.

"The man looks back and forth between the two, savoring her fear and his anger. He then thrusts the pen directly into Gwen’s right eye. He jams it in so hard and so fast that she dies almost instantly from the pen penetrating the brain pan. Blood spatters everywhere and the suited man takes a few seconds to survey the results. Stephen can see the man’s teeth in the mouth hole of the mask. His smile is demonic and growing. Vice grips of trauma lock his body. He feels numb. It is a blessing."


A word from author Todd Thiede:

I have had a few people ask me why I chose to be so graphic with the killings in “Time Killer”.  My best answer is that most murders are not neatly wrapped up in a little bow. They are acts of violence and in “Time Killer” you will get a very unique vision of not only what the detectives and victims see and feel, but you will also get a feeling for what the killer is experiencing. You will feel what the killer is feeling, you will see what the killer is seeing, and you will experience the true nature of what he is doing.  

Purchase Time Killer for Nook

By SJ Crown

In the 1986 movie Hoosiers, Coach Norman Dale (Gene Hackman) leads his Hickory Huskers into an empty Butler Field House, where this tiny-town high school team is set to play in the 1952 state tournament. The players’ jaws drop as they gaze around the place, a much larger basketball facility than they’ve ever seen. Having anticipated this, Coach Dale sets out to deliver everyone from their fieldhouse-induced stupor so they can think about playing basketball. And what does he do? Give some fiery speech? Run his squad through a bevy of basketball drills? Tell a joke about how size doesn’t matter? (Actually, it wouldn’t surprise me if that last one sneaked into one of the outtakes.) No, he pulls out a tape measure and directs a couple players to measure the distance from the backboard to the free throw line. They obey and dutifully report the distance: fifteen feet. Then they measure the height of the rim, which is the standard ten feet, of course. When they’re done, Coach Dale simply says this: “I think you’ll find these exact same dimensions back in our gym in Hickory.” The players all laugh, the tension is eased, and the Huskers go on to take the state championship.

So what does this have to do with writing? Well, like the players from Hickory, is it not all too easy for us writers to focus on what publication, what “fieldhouse” our writing will play in? Don’t we wonder how prestigious a magazine might print that drop-dead perfect piece we just wrote? Can we nab that big-name agent? How much money can we rake in? How much acclaim? When our thoughts run this way, are they not akin to the Huskers wondering how big a fieldhouse they’ll play in?

Then, if we’re ever lucky enough to get “the call” from that big-time magazine, or agent, or publishing house, might not we feel as awestruck, as out of place, as those Hickory players did? Might not we find it difficult to concentrate on the task at hand, the writing itself? When we dwell on the “where” of our writing, it’s easy to get sidetracked.

So here’s a little exercise for writers. Grab a favorite book or literary magazine, something that makes you pine to see your own byline in print. Open it to any page. Doesn’t matter which one. Now read a couple paragraphs.

Done? Okay, now take measure of what you’ve read. The words are all English words, right? (If you happen to be a foreign language aficionado, I apologize.) Any words you don’t know? (Somehow I doubt it.) The first letters of the sentences are all capitalized, right? Sentences end with a period, don’t they?

Okay, I’ll stop. As the dimensions of the court at Butler Field House were the same as those at Hickory High, the words found in big-time publications are the same ones all upstart writers employ. The definitions are the same, the correct grammar is the same, the correct punctuation is the same. And something much more important is the same: the almost magical power of those words to communicate. Doesn’t matter if fifty-million folks or only a few lonely souls see those words. In fact, I dare say that sometimes the words read by only a few accomplish more than much of the pablum that the masses take in.

Steven Pressfield, author of The Legend of Bagger Vance and The War of Art, talks about writing on two tracks. Track One is the way of writing from our inner, truest self. The writing that some call “bleeding on the page.” When we write this way, fulfilling our calling as a writer, we’re not one whit worried about where our writing will end up or what it will do for us. Track Two leads us down the path of writing for the market. We start writing what we think the world wants to read. We start pondering where our writing will find a home. We wonder what fieldhouse it will play in.

Track Two thinking is all about numbers. How many folks visit our website? How many new followers on Twitter? And how can I get that big publisher to love my work? Perhaps we’re netting little more than a passing glance. Perhaps we’re even inducing a few guffaws and sneers. And the truth hits: It’s quite possible that our words will never leave our own little “gymnasium.” Thinking this way, it’s certainly easy to get discouraged.

The cure, seems to me, is heading back to Track One, where we listen to our muse and write the words that come from within, the words our souls ache to say, because I know a couple things about those words. First, they’re the same ones the bestselling authors use. They carry the same potential to make people think, laugh, cry, or wonder. Second, just as the basketball game is more important than the fieldhouse, the writing itself is so much more consequential than the shell it’s published in. Maybe only a few folks will read our stuff. Maybe nobody will. Maybe people will care about what we have to say. Maybe they won’t. But it’s all okay, because the true rewards come when we focus on how well we’re “playing basketball.” Not where we’re playing.