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Monday, March 25, 2019

Roy Orbison's song "Only the Lonely" by Kaye Spencer #prairierosepubs #classicpop #OTD

Today in History

March 25, 1960

One of the most talented musician/singer/artist who ever was or ever will be...

Roy Orbison

...recorded the song "Only the Lonely". I can describe his voice in one word: Sublime.

Roy Orbison courtesy Wikimedia Commons license
Jac. de Nijs / Anefo, Roy Orbison (1965), CC BY 4.0

"Only the Lonely" is included in the album Lonely and Blue, which was released in 1961. This song was the first significant 'hit' for him.*

Interestingly enough, Orbison and his collaborator, Joe Melson, wrote "Only the Lonely", and offered it to Elvis Presley and the Everly Brothers, both who turned it down, but the Everly Brothers suggested Orbison record it himself. At the time, the song was titled "Know the Way I Feel", because Frank Sintra had a song in 1958 called "Only the Lonely".**

This particular song features a falsetto note that Orbison 'nailed', which gave the listeners the first exposure to the hidden power in his soft voice.

So, for your listening pleasure, here is Roy Orbison singing "Only the Lonely."




Until next time,

Kaye Spencer


 
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References:
*https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Only_the_Lonely
**https://www.songfacts.com/facts/roy-orbison/only-the-lonely-know-the-way-i-feel

Thursday, March 21, 2019

The Book Tour by J. Arlene Culiner


Episode Two: An Interesting Encounter


   Here I was, in Toronto. The sun was shining, birds were chirping, and I was strutting along the calm streets, dragging a small suitcase behind me. The world was my oyster — or so I thought. That little suitcase was filled with my own books, and in a few days, I would be heading for Halifax, Nova Scotia, for the first stop on my book tour — Dalhousie University. Quite a prestigious start!

          
  I had just been to my publisher’s office where I’d worked out the final details of the tour with the publicist. There really was no reason for things to go wrong. Okay, I had no experience in this, my publisher was a small one with little money for such an undertaking, but she did have a publicist to help me: a big plus. Possibly…

To tell the truth, that publicist didn’t inspire much confidence. She certainly didn’t look like my idea of a publicist with her bleached white hair standing on end, and her very many piercings. My questions bored her, she was remarkably vague, she preferred looking into a mirror on the opposite wall, and she soon let me know she had better things to do than just arrange a book tour for little old me: “Actually, I’m really a poet.”

But, why worry? What could go awry? But, then again, what did I know? As I mentioned, I was new at this. I had, nonetheless, taken certain matters into my own hands, arranging some of my talks, and most of my travel plans. I loved having this opportunity to go on the road, meet people, speak about all the research I had done, the world I had seen. Therefore, I would use my publisher’s offer of plane tickets to some destinations, continue on by bus in order to lower costs and prolong the tour. And, here I was now, ready for the journey, and taking the rest of the day to stroll down memory lane.

I grew up in Toronto but left long ago. It’s quite an experience, coming back to a place you once knew. Everything is familiar, yet unfamiliar. Life has gone on without you, but in your memory, things have stayed as fixed as photos. How well I knew these streets, with their luxuriant vegetation, their huge trees. These fine houses, emblems of security, looked so comfortable, so solid, and the few people I saw, so prosperous. Perhaps they were my former schoolmates — I wouldn’t recognize them if they were; I could hardly remember their names. But what I haven’t forgotten, is how impatient I was to leave all of this behind, to set out on my own, taste the big wide world. I wanted schooldays to end, and adventure, excitement, even danger to begin.

My travels began on dark nights, when I climbed out of my bedroom window, shinnied down the solid drain pipe, and wandered through dark back yards, peeking into windows, trying to learn life’s secrets. Journeys were also snatched during school hours, and forging my parents’ signatures was easy work. I charted every corridor in every station on the subway line; I knew every single bus route, and free transfers took me to the city’s limits, out to where houses dwindled away to scrubby fields. And, finally, once I gained courage, I left town altogether, set out for another sort of life.

Now, all these years later, I was back, albeit temporarily, as a writer. Okay, unlike my school chums, I’d never have one of those big houses. I also had little money, but is that important? Having to improvise, negotiate, make do, can be far more interesting — and stimulating — than just purchasing what you want. And, best yet, I’ve lived the life I only dreamed of back then.


Emerging from the lovely back streets and joined a roaring main street, Eglinton Avenue. Up ahead, I saw a man, a homeless person, sitting on a blanket on the sidewalk with two dogs. Absolutely beautiful dogs. I stopped, told him so. The dogs, perfectly friendly, came over to me for a pat.

“I have dogs too,” I said. “I miss them, but they’re at home, in France.”
So we got into a good conversation about dogs, like all decent dog owners tend to do. Then, we exchanged names — his was Bert — and I settled down on the step beside him. From dogs, we went on to other subjects, told a few life stories. His ruin had been alcohol, he said, but now, associated with a church downtown, he tried to help other homeless people with the same problem.
He asked me what I did in life, I said I was a writer, that my non-fiction book, Finding Home, had just won a literary award. That I was about to go on a book tour.
“Hey, I love reading,” said Bert. “And here I am, talking to a real author. Tell me about your book.”
So I did, of course — what author would resist? Wasn’t this another book talk? I mentioned crossing Romania on foot, my research in the archives across Europe.

“That sounds just wonderful.” I could see Bert was sincere. “You don’t happen to have one of your books with you, do you?”
Suddenly, I felt quite uncomfortable. I was sure he was about to ask me if he could have a free copy — after all, he was panhandling on the street: that was his job. My job was selling my books. There was a conflict of interest here.

Most people think that publishers hand their happy authors hefty piles of books to give away to friends, family, admiring fans, critics, would-be critics, and that nice lady who serves coffee in the delicatessen. However, that just isn’t true (as we authors know.) We do get a few free copies from our publishers — the actual number depends on the size of the print run, the marketing plan, the author’s stature, and what’s been agreed upon in the publishing contract. An unknown author takes what he or she can get, and that usually means ten copies: some receive a few more, others even less.

      Publishers aren’t being unfair. They keep track of every book, including complimentary copies, because free books are the marketing tools they send to professional reviewers, bloggers, and anybody willing to spread the word. Authors are expected to use their own free copies in the same way. This means you shouldn’t be giving a copy to Aunt Sadie because you love her. Once you’ve used up your allotment of freebies, you have to buy your own books, although you do pay less for them — somewhere between forty and sixty percent of the retail price, as specified in your contract.

 “Yes, I do have some of my books with me,” I admitted to Bert. “I have copies I bought from my publisher, and I have to sell them.” I was feeling terribly guilty. After all, Bert was a homeless person. I, although very far from well-off, did have a home.
“No problem,” said Bert. “I’m not asking for anything free. I want to buy a copy.”
“You want to buy my book?”
“Sure, I do. You don’t meet authors every day of the week. And I like the story.”
“You’re sure about this?”
“Of course, I am. How much does one cost?’
Okay, you can see my dilemma, can’t you? This man, this homeless person, was about to buy a copy of my book. My book, at twenty-two dollars, was relatively expensive. This person had a plastic cup with a few coins in it, and a couple of nice dogs to feed. I wasn’t going to sell him a twenty-two dollar book, was I? Of course, I wasn’t. I wasn’t going to give one away either — that would be ridiculous, especially in my position. I could, however, sell him a copy with the same forty percent discount I had. I wouldn’t make any money on it, but I was doing a good deed. I could even chop down the price for him. Just to make me feel better.
“Are you really sure?” I asked. “It will cost you twelve dollars.”
“Great,” said Bert without the slightest hesitation. “If you just sit here and watch the dogs for a moment, I’ll cross over to the bank on the corner and get the money.” And reaching into a pocket, he pulled out a nice, golden credit card, then set off with a jaunty step.
I sat there on the step, stroking the dogs, and thinking hard. A credit card. He had a credit card. I didn’t. I’ve never had one. Ever.
If I wanted to make a success of this writing business, I certainly had a lot to learn.

Jill Culiner (J. Arlene Culiner) can also be found at:



Wednesday, March 20, 2019

New Release -- The Vampire Affair by Livia J. Washburn

The world knew Michael Brandt as a playboy tycoon. The underworld knew him as a fierce vampire hunter. Armed with a wooden stake and superior strength, Michael targeted the most powerful overlords in a clandestine do-or-die operation…and then tabloid reporter Jessie Morgan uncovered his secret.

Only once before had Michael allowed a woman into his secret lair. Now he'd fight heaven and hell to keep Jessie from the same fate. But he couldn't fight the attraction that drew him to her like a bloodlust. An attraction that might prove deadly…or worse. For Michael was going up against the most powerful of the undead—and that vampire had his fangs bared for Jessie.

The tabloid reporter finds a bigger story than she ever imagined…the sexy playboy tycoon is a vampire hunter!


EXCERPT


     “Don’t you smell that garlic?”
     Now that he mentioned it, she did. In fact, the scent was pretty strong. She hadn’t noticed it before because she had been concentrating on getting in to see Brandt.
     Jessie didn’t have time to worry about smells. She slipped her hand into her jacket pocket and took out the camera. She planned to get a shot of Brandt as soon as he opened the door, then maybe aim past him to catch the other two men in her lens, if luck was with her.
     Unfortunately, just as the door started to swing open, Ted gasped and disappeared from beside her. She had the vague impression, seen from the corner of her eye, that he had been jerked violently backward like a puppet on a string.
     She was about to turn to see what had happened to him when a bar of iron slammed across her throat, cutting off her air and making it impossible for her to speak or even breathe. Fear and surprise exploded in her brain, and for a second she couldn’t think. Then she realized that it wasn’t a bar of iron choking her, it was somebody’s arm. Her feet scrabbled on the flagstone walk as her attacker dragged her backward.

    

Sunday, March 17, 2019

PLOT HOLE, by Cat Writer Mollie Hunt





 What is scarier than looking down the maw of a Siberian tiger? The plot hole*, by far.

You’ve worked your tail off writing a book. After weeks or months of fine tuning, you get it right where you like it. You dive in for that final read-through, expecting to find nothing more than a few wayward commas or duplicated words, and there it is, glaring you in the face, laughing.

You have a plot hole, and now you must go back and add, rearrange, and often change your perfect story to accommodate this nuisance.


Maybe some writers can pen a clean story with no hiccups, but I’m not one of them. Since I am a “pantser” and write without an outline, I’m often confronted by a plot hole (or holes) by the end. Some are simple to fix; others, not so much.

Though a pain in the patootie and a blow to our author ego, plot holes are not always a bad thing. In my last book, the plot hole led me to a far superior explanation for the murder motive.

And if nothing else, you can always fill your plot hole with a cat.



*In fiction, a plot hole, plothole or plot error is a gap or inconsistency in a storyline that goes against the flow of logic established by the story's plot. Such inconsistencies include such things as illogical or impossible events, and statements or events that contradict earlier events in the storyline.
Plot hole - Wikipedia

Check out more blogs by Mollie Hunt, Cat Writer at:
Happy reading!


Author note: I still am unable to answer comments. Sometimes I can but most often they just fall into a black hole. I do read all comments and hope someday to figure out the problem and get it fixed. If anyone has any suggestions or wants to contact me directly, email MollieHuntCatWriter@gmail.com.

Monday, March 4, 2019

Writer's block. By Michael E. Gonzales



What writer has not encountered this little monster lurking in the dark recesses of his mind crushing all inspiration, threatening any muse who dare approach. He is the ogre of imagination, the troll of creativity.


Whether it be the search for some new story to commit to page, or that dreaded assault that stops you dead in the middle of a story. Writer’s block is a curse that comes to us all.

Volumes have been written on how to overcome this onerous creature, detailed instructions on how to slay the dragon that bars our path and threatens our sanity.


The demon knows that the writer must write, as he must breathe, to live.  This devil will stand above you and laugh as you struggle. Delight in your suffering, and nourish himself on your anguish.


His victory is to watch as you surrender, quit, give up.

Here then, comes the moment of truth. Many writers might display the white flag. But not so the author. And what is an author? A writer who did not quit.



I am no quitter. I have published works on the market. On my hard drive, right now, I have nineteen completed novels.

I have been spending a lot of time editing and rewriting those unpublished works, which as we all know is a major part of writing. However, I long to create a new world and fill it with people and creatures. To develop new heroes, new villains and to see them clash over stakes as high as the fate of the universe, the world, or perhaps…love.

I sat and opened MS word, at the top I typed “Page 1”. That’s as far as I’ve gotten.


At night I dream of a hollow tree that swallow me and I crawl through earthen tunnels choked with roots and teaming with all manner of horrible insects, spiders, and snakes.
Ahead of me I can see a wondrous light emanating from a magnificent cave bedazzled with precious stones. Sights of such beauty abound within this magical subterranean realm as to bring the most hardened man to his knees, his eyes filling with tears as he beholds such wonders.

Somehow, I am aware of all this, and more. My desire to reach this place is unmatched by anything in my experience. Yet―I cannot reach it. I claw my way through the dirt, gnaw through entrapping roots, suffer the bites of hundreds of bugs. But as I reach that marvelous cavern unseen hands grip my ankles and drag me back into the darkness.


I awaken from this nightmare, covered in sweat, breathing heavily, staring into the softly glowing face of my alarm clock. In my delirium the face of that clock begins to slowly spin and to morph until it becomes the face of an angle, perhaps my muse herself. She whispers…“Just write…just write.”

And so, that is exactly my intent. I will face that blank page and just write. Whatever comes to mind, I will just write. In so doing I truly believe inspiration will come to me.

Doubtless many of you have been here, confronted by the monster. What have you done to slay the beast?


Please visit my Web Site:  http://www.mikegonzalesauthor.com/home.html


* * * * * *

Dark Moon Rising, Battle of Broken Moon, Across a Sea of Star, The Vampires of Antyllus, The Blue of Antyllus, ActionAction AdventureAlien worldsAliensbattleDark Moon RisingFireStarPressMichael E. Gonzalesmikegonzalesauthor.comNewReleaseRomance,science fictionsyfy



    

Friday, March 1, 2019

Plagiarism: Alive and Well


Several months ago I introduced you the world of #cockygate and the book stuffing so prevalent on Amazon. If you missed those posts you can read them HERE and HERE.

Now, the world of romance has been hit by yet another scandal, this one involving plagiarism. It all began when a reader notified romance author Courtney Milan that another author, Cristiane Serruya, had copied portions of one of Courtney's books. Like the lawyer she is, Courtney did her own investigation and quickly determined that Cristiane had copied, word for word, multiple passages from her book The Duchess War. Not one to take plagiarism lightly, Courtney immediately went on the defensive and called Cristiane out in a blog post. (Read it HERE.)

Plagiarizing one author is bad enough but it was quickly determined that Ms. Serruya had plagiarized many others as well. It seems she copied and pasted other's words together, then hired ghostwriters to turn them into actual books, stiffed the ghostwriters for their services, and then published the "books" on Amazon where she became an Amazon bestselling author. She even gained USA Today Bestselling author status as a part of the Billionaire Ever After anthology--and it has been determined that her entry in that anthology was also plagiarized. It seems that even though she calls her self an author Ms. Serruya has quite possibly never actually written a book.

As most scammers do, when called out by Courtney and others authors such as Tessa Dare, Ms. Serruya denied any knowledge of it, then blamed it on her ghostwriters. As the number of authors and books plagiarized continued to grow, Ms. Serruya eventually deleted all of her social media accounts. One of the most baffling aspects to this whole scenario is that Ms. Serruya claims to be a lawyer. If anyone, anyone, is going to avoid plagiarism it should be a lawyer. And then to plagiarize authors you follow on social media? Beyond the pale.


@CaffeinatedFae on Twitter is keeping a running count of the authors/books impacted. As of this writing, the number of books, authors, etc. plagiarized by Ms. Serruya stands at:

42 books
29 authors
3 articles
1 website
1 Wattpad story


Among the other authors plagiarized in Nora Roberts. Yes, that Nora Roberts. This, unfortunately, isn't Nora's first time at the plagiarism rodeo and she is pissed. Nora has written two blog posts that have had me jumping to my feet and cheering. You can read them HERE and HERE and I highly recommend you do so. My absolute favorite quote from her posts is "I’ll have a lot more to say about this, all of this. I’m not nearly done. Because the culture that fosters this ugly behavior has to be pulled out into the light and burned to cinders. Then we’re going to salt the freaking earth." Yes! The sleeping dragon has been awakened and it's name is Nora Roberts.

If I'm honest, and I always strive to be, each time one of these disasters comes to light, it just breaks my heart. So many of us just want to write stories to make people laugh or forget about their problems for a while. It's hard enough to be seen in such a crowded genre but when you've also got to fight against the scammers actively working to game the system... *sigh* Many authors have already given up. I don't blame them. It's tempting at times to join them. But, for now, I'll keep plugging along. Maybe now someone has joined the battle with big enough guns to make a difference. So, if you need me I'll be over here donning my armor and sharpening my sword, getting ready to join Nora's army.

To keep up with the latest on this issue, follow the #copypastecris hashtag on Twitter.

Until next month, happy reading - and writing.


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