Wednesday, October 23, 2019

New Release - The Witch-Queen (Legends of Winatuke Book 1) by Sarah J. McNeal

The Dark Isle has been a refuge for evil since time began in the world of Winatuke, and the most depraved and wicked of them all is the witch-queen, Mahara, who rules over the malignant kingdom of darkness.
Mahara has taken a captive, a prince of the Nimway people, and she plans to use him for the revenge that burns in her soul. By forcing her own daughter, Isadore, into marriage with Prince Gabriel, she hopes to gain the power she craves over the Nimway—especially her ex-lover and Isadore’s father, Raven.
Her scheme goes awry when love begins to grow between Isadore and Gabriel. Isadore realizes the only way to save Gabriel is for them to escape together, but at the last minute, that plan fails. Separated from Gabriel,  Isadore is forced to continue to the Nimway kingdom of Valmora alone to seek help from her mother’s enemies.
Once Isadore gains their trust, Gabriel’s brother, Raphael, volunteers to travel to present-day Earth to get help. To save his brother, he must bring Raven back to the world of Winatuke, and ask him to risk his own life in the battle against Mahara’s evil forces.
It seems an impossible task. How can they ever defeat Mahara? With the evil forces she can summon at will, it seems Gabriel’s life will be forfeit. But Isadore refuses to allow that, risking her own life to save him. Forced to follow her heart, Isadore wonders if she can ever win her father’s trust or Gabriel’s love. She only knows she must defeat her mother’s evil vendetta for all time. No matter the consequences she must vanquish THE WITCH-QUEEN

EXCERPT


     "You think you can fool me, Isadore, but you should know by now that is impossible." Mahara's eyes glowed like two red hot coals of anger as she faced her daughter. "What were you doing with my prisoner yesterday, that arrogant Nimway brat?"
     "Nothing, Mother, I swear it. I only wanted to see what the filthy Nimway looked like." Isadore could not quite look her mother in the eyes. She bent her head to avoid facing her, and stared at the floor. "I did talk to him just a little." She whispered her confession.
     Mahara whirled around, her black gown whispering and swirling around her as if it had a life of its own. She lifted Isadore's chin with her long, thin finger so Isadore would have to look at her. "And what did you two converse about? Be very careful that you tell me the whole truth," she warned, "I shall know if you lie, or omit anything." There was a nasty tone in her voice.
     Isadore shook visibly in her fear. She knew her mother's powers. There was reason to be afraid…very, very afraid. She swallowed the lump in her throat. "We talked about my father."
     Mahara's eyes grew black with rage. "How could you talk with a child of my enemies about the very thing for which I hate them?" She dug her fingers into Isadore's shoulders and shook her. "Why? Why would you do such a thing?"
     Isadore could barely look at her mother so great was her fear. She didn't want Mahara to see this weakness in her. Her words stumbled from her lips, "I...I wanted to know if...if..."


     

Sunday, October 20, 2019

8 WAYS TO SUPPORT A BOOK LAUNCH WITHOUT ACTUALLY GOING, by Mollie Hunt, Cat Writer


I want to send a special thank you to the four people who attended our book launch last night. (Six, if you include the guys we brought to carry our books.) (Eight if you also include the people who work at the bookstore.)

I understand it was a rainy, stormy Portland night, the kind no one in their right mind wants to go out in, including me. 

I understand it was hosted by a small independent bookseller and not Powell’s or Barnes & Noble. 

I understand that Thursday night might not be the optimum time for an event. 

I understand that I’m not Margaret Atwood or even Cindy Brown. 

I understand that a cozy cat mystery is not the great American novel. 

I got all that, plus more, but here is what you should know, from my side. 

It took great time and effort to put me to that podium with my new book in hand. For the initial concept to become a story, then for that story to become a book, takes me over a year. Not that I resent it: I love to write and will do it with or without support from my peers. What I don’t really love is getting up in front of an audience. For days before my event, I’m anxious. I fret over what I’m going to say and wear. I spend a great deal of time on promotion, which is uncomfortable for me and feels a little like I’m invading people’s privacy, but it’s part of the job. I always enjoy my moments in the spotlight once I get there, but the lead-up is hard, and afterward, I’m exhausted for days. 

It’s okay if you can’t come to the launch, for whatever reason or none. What’s nice though is when people write a note, whether an email or a short post on the Facebook event page, just to say, “Hey, break a leg.” 

You are not expected to buy books! No one I know has enough money to buy every book that comes along, so unless you really want to read it, don’t bother. Your presence is more than enough. And if you are an ebook reader, it’ perfectly fine to take promotional material for later.

Artwork by Ms. Cat
 There are many ways to support an author with a new book besides coming to the launch: 

1.      Preorder the book. Preorders are counted toward first-week sales, so preordering can give a huge boost to a title. 

2.     Read it? Leave a review. Reviews are important. It doesn’t have to be anything fancy— “I liked it,” is enough. 

3.     “Like” the author’s Facebook Fan page. This is win-win, because you never know what tidbits you might pick up. For instance, I give cat tips on mine. 

4.     Request a copy from your library. Most libraries take suggestions from their clientele, just as most libraries do not take books directly from the author. 

5.     Pass it on. Instead of tossing the book into the Goodwill pile once you’ve read it, give it to a friend who you think might enjoy it, or leave it in a “Little Community Library” box, if you have those in your neighborhood. 

Here’s a sneaky one, but I like it!

6.     Face the book out at bookstores. Next time you see the book at a store, rearrange the shelf so the cover faces the aisle to make it much more noticeable. 

7.     Suggest the book to your book club.  Some authors give deals for book club sales. It never hurts to ask. 

And lastly:

8.     If you liked the book, tell the author. It may seem obvious, but it happens rarely. Few writers write to make money— it’s all about telling their story. To know that story has reached someone is the highest reward a writer can receive.


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


Happy reading!

Thursday, October 17, 2019

The Book Tour Episode Nine: Livingston, Montana






I decide to spend a few days in Livingstone, Montana, once a mining and railroading town. Tourism has now replaced those activities — not always happily, as one local informs me: “You can’t make the same money cleaning rooms that you could on the railway.” Trains still roll through, whistles blowing, making buildings tremble.


Livingston is a chic venue. Over the years, the famous and well-heeled have dropped by, spent time, or taken up residence. It’s also a friendly place; complete strangers say hello to me on the streets, in bars, at restaurant counters. Perhaps I’m the only one who thinks this is unusual; in France, where I live, and such easy camaraderie doesn’t exist.

The red brick buildings in the town center have been beautifully restored, but even back in 1883, Livingston drew the admiration of one enthusiastic traveler: “The town site is as flat as a billiard table, the streets are wide and straight. Concrete walks cover the entire city, and most of the streets are paved…  it’s one of the finest looking towns in the northwest.” But all that earlier perfection was destroyed in a series of fires in May, August, and November of 1885. Arson was suspected, and vigilantes took matters into their own hands, warning bad elements to leave. Some did. The rest were confronted by a posse of masked men armed with rifles and a rope who indicated Livingston had no room for them. Further fires in 1886, and 1903 were caused by faulty electric street wiring.


I trudge through the knee-deep snow, take back streets lined by huge trees, where wooden frame houses have lovely glass doors, and large verandas with welcoming sofas and benches hint at summer nights, crickets, and warmth — although those balmy days are hard to imagine today
“Nice architecture,” I say to one smiling man who is out here walking his fat brown dog.
He nods. “They knew how to build in the old days. Back then things were different. When rich folks moved in, they lived like everyone else. But now, new folks with money build big pretentious places, vast ugly castles. They’ll look better as ruins, one day.”
I laugh. He looks more closely at me. “Where you from?”
“I live in France, at the moment.”
He nods, moves off.

I wander down South B Street although there’s nothing particular to see, just the usual parking lots, warehouses, businesses, and further along, some modest houses. From 1890 until the 1920s, this was the town’s red-light district, where prostitutes, lap dogs on their knees, sat in windows lit by those famous red lights.
 Shopkeepers loved these ladies who spent their cash on furs, fans, and fancy clothes; but they were, of course, the bane of townswomen, who watched with jaded eyes as they rode through town in their carriages, accompanied, as ever, by their madam. Those same “good women” made sure the “fallen angels” sat in the last rows in the theatre, and in church. But perfumed, decked out in their jewels and silks, the “angels” were very well behaved. “Real ladies,” said one admiring (probably male) witness. Some of the ladies went on to marry local boys and become respectable housewives.
The last houses of prostitution were closed at the end of WWII, after protests that they were too close to the local school. Many sadly said: “The town lost its color when the red lights went out.”
***
Human occupation of this area dates back to at least 11,000 years ago. When white explorers arrived with the Lewis and Clark expedition of 1805, the Nez Perce, Crow and Shoshone tribes were in residence, but European American settlement brought disease — almost half the population of the Crow died from smallpox and cholera — and disaster. The shameful Indian Removal Act of 1830, the violation of treaties, Supreme Court rulings facilitating the spread of settlers, the encroachment of agriculture, and the mass killing of bison by travelers, settlers, and government agents — one hundred thousand were killed each year and were on the verge of extinction — pushed native peoples onto the hunting grounds of others, resulted in violence, warfare, and intertribal combat.

When silver was discovered on local Sioux land, prospectors paid no attention to treaties stating that tribal territory was not to be encroached upon. Certainly, it would have been easy enough to get Native permission to access the mining area, but the government moved slowly, and no negotiations were undertaken. Resentful, the Sioux attacked, destroying smelters, bridges, and stealing horses. The Montana Militia retaliated, proposing a war on those “murdering savages,” the Sioux as well as the Crow, although these last weren’t hostile. As one fur company clerk said in 1831, “The Crow, said to be thieves, rob but would never kill. If they killed us, we would never come back, and they would lose the chance of stealing from us.”

In 1867, six hundred men were organized into a fighting force, although they were no more than renegades, outlaws, and horse thieves, who were more than happy “to enroll under the protection of the law.” Undisciplined and disloyal, in the first summer, a detachment of one hundred deserted at once, raiding the commissary and carrying off what they could. When, in winter, water and provisions were scarce and food vouchers were found to be useless, those remaining killed each other in quarrels. More were murdered by each other than by Natives, and their graves can still be found in Livingston.
In 1868, the survivors left, without pay, but happy to escape. Regiments of the United States Army replaced the militia, but instead of enforcing treaty regulations, the army provided protection and ammunition to hunters who entered Native land and continued to slaughter buffalo.

In 1923, James H. Cook wrote in his book, Fifty Years on the Frontier as a Cowboy, Hunter, Guide, Scout, and Ranchman: “The American Indians of today who ever lived as their fathers before them, wild and free, are few and fast tottering into the long shadows of the sunset. Most of them are gentle enough now. They will eat almost anything, which the white man cares to give them. Some of them may still be called wild or hostile; but the most they ever do is to plead with the Great White Father at Washington for the little portion of their former land which is left to them — a residue which they see gradually being taken possession of by every means that white men of big and little interests can devise.”

***
Two and a half hours away is Yellowstone National Park, created by the geologist Ferdinand V. Hayden in 1871 who warned that “vandals who are now waiting to enter into this wonder-land, will in a single season despoil, beyond recovery, these remarkable curiosities, which have required all the cunning skill of nature thousands of years to prepare.”

One year later, no sooner had the national park been created, a swarm of poachers, squatters, tourists, and petty criminals rampaged in. Army engineer William Ludlow reconnoitered the region in 1875, and he reported: “The visitors prowled about with shovel and ax, chopping, and hacking, and prying up great pieces of the most ornamental geyser they could find; women and men alike joining in the barbarous pastime.”

Over the next fourteen years, game herds were slaughtered, trees were felled, homesteads were erected, and hot spring formations destroyed. Finally, the U.S. Army took charge of the park for the next thirty-two years.

Modern tourism — in 2018, over 4 million people visited Yellowstone — is still taking its toll on the park. According to the Idaho News, in the winter of 2000, 76,271 people entered Yellowstone National Park on snowmobiles, outnumbering the 40,727 visitors who came in cars, 10,779 in snow coaches, and 512 on skis. Snowmobile noise could be heard 70% of the time at 11 of 13 sample sites, and 90% of the time at 8 sites. At the Old Faithful geyser, snowmobiles could be heard 100% of the time during the daytime period, and the noise drowned out the sound of the geyser erupting.

Michael V. Finley, former superintendent of Yellowstone, protested against trout illegally dumped into Yellowstone Lake, poachers, and hostile ranchers who continue to slaughter bison for fear they might transmit disease to domestic livestock, and warned that the Crown Butte Mines Inc., two and a half miles from Yellowstone’s northeast boundary, produces acidic waste rock that, when exposed to air and water, generates sulfuric acid and leaches heavy metals such as lead and cadmium into waterways and killing all life.
***
“Where you from?” asks the man with the long beard standing next to me in the bar.
“Well, I live in France at the moment.”
“France, huh. That’s the place where you’ve got all those Muslims blackmailing people. Why don’t you get rid of them all, throw them out of the country?”
“That’s not exactly how democracy works…” I begin, but he’s not waiting for the rest of the argument.
“I’ll tell you what the problem is over here in the USA. They never tell us anything. We never find out what’s going on in other countries.”
“Yeah,” says another man, short, grizzled, standing beside him. “Ain’t that the truth, too. My friend Bill? He told me he met an Iraqi, a well-educated man, a perfectly normal person. You don’t imagine that kind of thing.”
“You know,” says beard, “we Americans, we only go to war to help people out.”
“Like in Viet Nam? Laos? Cambodia? Cuba? Grenada? Iraq?”
He chews that over for a minute or two. “Well, we just have our pride, I guess.”
***
Another man, handsome, charming, runs a local bookshop. He asks where I’m from.
“I live in France, at the moment.”
He nods, not really all that interested. He used to be a high roller in New York, but in the 60s, he threw up the pressure and the success for life out here. “I have my horses and my bookshop. Life is good.”
In his shop, he specializes in local history, although none have been written by Native Americans. “The ones who leave the reservations and go to university get into the intellectual sphere and don’t come back.”
“What’s life like on the reservations now?”
 “The Crow reservation is rich, large, and the Crow are well-traveled people. Some have been all over the world, but then they come back here. That’s the negative side of close-knit family ties and tribal connections; they make it difficult to stay away, even when life could be better elsewhere. On the reservation, everyone is caught up in petty jealousies and fights — one extended family against another, everyone hating another’s success — so nothing progresses the way it should, and nothing functions. The nearby Cheyenne reservation is much poorer, but there’s none of the in-fighting, and the reservation works very well. Over there, they call the Crows apples — red outside, white inside — because of their cow-towing and demands upon Washington in the past and the present, too.

***
I notice that, although everyone is extremely friendly and willing to confide, exchange, chat, give their opinion, buy me drinks and give me the feeling I’m welcome, absolutely no one has asked me a question, other than the one about where I live. No one is in the least bit curious about my life, my interests, my work, my destination, my background, or my pet dog. Not that it matters: I’m not here to stay.

A soldier is standing behind me in the line in the bus station where we’re waiting to pass through the 
metal detector, just in case someone has an itchy trigger finger or is particularly fond of knives.

“Where d’you come from?” asks the soldier.
“I live in France at the moment.”
“Oh, yeah? Me, I’m proud to be an American. Life’s different here. Aggression’s not part of the American way of life. I don’t even lock my door at night. Sure, crime’s just the result of people not getting work, but the criminals here all come from other countries. You know, places like South America, Eastern Europe, the Middle East. They’re not Americans. There’s very little violence in the USA.”
I stare at him in pure astonishment. “The gun-related murder rate is twenty-five times higher in the United States than any other developed nation.”
“Where do you get crap information like that? There are far more murders in Germany and Japan than there are here.”
“Of course there aren’t.” Although I have no statistics available, I know that Germany is far safer than the USA, and Japan has one of the lowest murder rates in the world.
“I know what I’m talking about,” he insists. “Japan is ripped apart by gun wars. I’ve been around, I know a lot. I’m a history buff; I eat the local food in all the other counties; I make an effort. I even learn how to speak other languages. For example, I can speak real good Japanese.”
“Can you? Say something to me in Japanese.”
“Like what?”
“For example, how do you say ‘hello’ in Japanese?”
He stares at me. Wheels are turning in his head, but they go slowly. “Well, I can’t remember exactly. You sort of forget when you’re not there.”

When I finally take a seat on the bus, I make sure I’m very far away from him.

More about my books and passionate life can be found at http://www.j-arleneculiner.com and http://www:jill-culiner.com and on my podcast at https://soundcloud.com/j-arlene-culiner

Friday, October 4, 2019

Seasoned Romance


According to the Oxford dictionary, the definition of ageism is "prejudice or discrimination on the ground's of a person's age." Sadly, ageism is alive and well in our culture. It seems that once a person hits fifty or so, their knowledge and life skills are no longer as valued simply because they are no longer twenty-something, which seems odd to me. Each stage of life comes with its own learning, building on the knowledge and experiences gained in the years preceding. The older members of society are those with the most varied experiences so why not learn from them rather than treat them as somehow less simply because they are ageing? After all, it happens to all of us, if we live long enough.

I will be the first to admit that, at times, I have been more than a little naive. When I first became aware of ageism, it took me by surprise. It was something that had never played a part in my life. My parents were in their late thirties when they had me and I grew up surrounded by older/elderly people. Honestly, it was always easier for me to relate to older people than it was to people my own age and I never thought less of any of them simply because of their age. When I was in middle school I heard a class mate bemoaning how old his grandparents were. I was surprised when I realized that my parents were the age of his grandparents! When I contacted my sons to remind them of my father's 90th birthday my youngest responded with "No one ever believes me when I tell them how old my grandparents are." 😂

As a  romance writer, it pains me to say it but ageism is very much alive and well in the world of romance. Most romances feature heroines in their twenties - maybe every now and then, even one in her thirties. But older than that? Please, say it isn't so. *fans away a case of the vapors* Admittedly, I'm just as guilty as any other romance author. To date, only one of my stories, Saved by the Belle, has featured a heroine in her fifties. (And honestly, Dot is one of my favorite heroines so far.) But, I have discovered a Seasoned Romance group dedicated to fighting this trend and helping publishers to see that readers want stories with older characters. After all, those of us on the seasoned side of life can better identify with characters of our own age, facing the same trials and tribulations we have faced. And, after all, love isn't only for the young.

Image courtesy of www.depositphotos.com

So, if you want to join the battle - or just find books with seasoned love stories - join the Seasoned Romance group here: https://www.facebook.com/groups/958318970951705/ If you are an author and are a member of Romance Writers of America, there is even a new chapter for writers of seasoned romances.

 As for me, I'll be doing my part. I have several stories planned with heroines in their forties, fifties, and even sixties. This is not to say that there won't still be heroines in their twenties because, well, there will. My characters tend to show up fully fledged, they are who they are, age included. My secret desire is to write a post-apocalyptic romance with a fifty-something heroine kicking butt and saving the world. She has survived divorce and menopause so nothing so simple as the end of the world as we know it is going to ruffle her feathers. Maybe someday...

Until next month, Happy Fall Y'all!


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