It’s one thing to have Wind Over Troubled Waters on my Kindle, but to actually hold Francene’s and my babies in my arms beats that by far! Just look at me. 
Felt like magic to read words I’d written in such a pretty book–and not a computer manual. 
Wendy Laharnar featured me and Francene Stanley as authors of the month in her e-zine Calamity’s Corner. To read it though, you’d have to subscribe to Wendy’s fantastic monthly newsletter for readers, writers & movie buffs at leisure. It’s certainly worth it if you’re interested in book and movie reviews, travel features, unusual endeavors, and more.
You might even read about my upcoming releases…
|
Beware! When serial snapshots collide mid-fiction, the future will never be the same. Find out what happens as … Caleath Invades Troubled Waters.
If you haven’t read Part I, you better hop over to Rosalie Skinner’s Blog first. Part III follows tomorrow at Francene Stanley’s Blog. |
Caleath struggled free of Sasha’s grip to ward off her latest knight. “We were only talking. Nothing more.”
“Boris!” Sasha’s gasp of excitement drew Caleath’s attention. Would she really marry the giant although she roamed the woods with Aron?
A fist slammed into the side of his head. He stumbled with the impact. Sasha squeaked. Obviously Queen Sasha maintained a stable of knights. Given a choice, dodging blows from Aron seemed preferable to keeping out of Boris’s grasp.
As his head cleared, Caleath ducked and stepped clear of the attacker’s reach. His instinct to retaliate remained in check. Rather than harm these people, he needed their help. How else could he figure out where he was and a means of leaving?
Boris fought with gusto and enthusiasm, but his weight slowed him. Sasha called encouragement from a safe distance. Caleath couldn’t quite figure who she supported. Her enjoyment seemed evenly balanced between moments when Boris’s fists found their target and those when Caleath dodged and the giant overreached.
As Caleath’s fist made contact with the behemoth’s shoulder, the jarring jolt left him breathless. He sidestepped but failed to evade Boris’s grasp as huge fingers sought a hold of his jacket and tossed him like a child’s toy across the clearing. The sudden impact with the ground freed several loose ideas inside Caleath’s head. Grinning, he scrambled to his feet, finally aware of where he was.
Dialect and obscure references swirled in a miasma of memories. Names, places, people and myths coalesced with a certainty he found exhilarating. For whatever reason, whoever manipulated the matter transporter had dumped him on Old Earth. Britain, Merlin, Corn World, it all made horrendous sense.
He ducked, dodged and swivelled clear of Boris’s fist. The next blow brushed his shoulder.
“Stop dancing, you dratted butterfly,” Boris barked.
“Stop complaining, or I’ll fly away.” Unable to remain completely clear of the huge man’s anger, Caleath felt he controlled the battle. A blow to his kidney caught him on a wound not yet healed. Pain speared through his side. The sudden surge of adrenaline prompted Caleath to finish the fight.
He kept the giant off balance, offering easy targets, making the most of the time it took for the big man to recover. When Boris accidentally slammed his fist into a tree, he doubled over, clutching his hurting knuckles. Caleath landed three quick punches before striking a knockout blow to the giant’s jaw. Sasha’s shout of dismay dissolved into a startled gasp. Caleath spun to see what caused her change of heart.
Charging out of nowhere, Aron swung a huge lump of firewood. Before he could react, the makeshift club knocked Caleath clear into the Abyss.
* * *
A rock pressed against Boris’s shoulder blade, another against his chin. No, not possible. He opened his eyes and stared at black trees and a dark sky. Where? He groaned, lifted a hand to his throbbing chin. Who? Oh, right, that other skinny young buck who had his hands all over the woman he meant to marry.
Boris sat up and shook his head. Still dizzy. Where was she? Glancing around, he spotted a lump under an old yew tree. Boris struggled to his feet and trudged over. The groping stranger. Huh. So he did knock the badger out. Rubbing his chin, Boris wondered who sent him into dreamland then. No matter, he had to find the woman. His woman. He stomped off searching for signs and pulled the tiny shell on a string from his pocket. She’d shown him the way once before. At first he thought she’d lost the necklace. But how could she? She’d placed it at eye level on a branch for him to find. But why? She’d run away with that Aron fellow anyway. Like they all did. Women ogled him, smiled at him sometimes, but they all ran when he got too close. Afraid. The whole lot of them.
But then he’d promised to marry her, and he would. He’d never met anyone like her before. So delicate and good with words.
He’d found traces of the woman and man leading towards the sinking sun. Footprints, a tuft of the fur strip she’d wrapped around her legs. And the little shell on a string.
Shells grew in the sea. She’d left him a message, told him where they were going. She wanted him, so he followed.
A scuffle ahead. Footsteps. He approached slowly.
There. She stood motionless, all by herself, craning her neck. No noise now.
Two more steps, then one. With one hand he grabbed her shoulder, pressed the other over her mouth and pulled her against his chest.
She flung out her arms. A muffled scream seeped through his fingers. Then her arms dropped. For a sickening moment, he worried he’d hurt her. She relaxed against him. One hand slipped over his and gently pried his fingers from her mouth.
She turned around and smiled at him. “Boris!”
The sound of his name coming from her lips made his knees tremble.
“I knew you’d come. And not a moment too soon. Help my companion.”
“Waa?”
She nodded in the direction of the scuffle. “Save him. Do it for me.”
His head shook instinctively.
She frowned. “You can’t even do that? Are you afraid of these ruffians? A bulk of a man like you? Aron knocked out the stranger who attacked you. Help him!”
* * * *
The fresh air in the forest comforted Cerridwen with cool leaf buds above and mossy ground underfoot. Branches embraced her as she pushed through their cover after Trevly. His muddied golden strands hung just below his ears and showed signs of a recent cut. She’d offer help next time to avoid the ragged line.
It felt comforting to have a man by her side who’d risk his life for her. She slowed. More rocks lay scattered ahead. She concentrated on where to place her bare feet. Surviving against all odds, in a land populated with brown- and black-skinned people, she realized that she must be here for some purpose. Something about the way the sun came through to the earth had weakened others of her kind. In the before-times, many white women couldn’t reproduce. She heard stories about some process called Ivy they’d used when they wanted to make babies. When the floods swept everything away, all that changed. Over the years, her family and friends died off, leaving just her. Perhaps one day she would find others.
“Ouch.” She bent to rub her toe.
Trevly turned back and scanned the area before his gaze settled on her. “What’s wrong?”
She studied him in amazement. There he stood in tough boots wondering what caused her to stop. Raising her eyebrows, she straightened. “Don’t worry about me. You go on.”
His features squeezed up in self-reproach. “I’m sorry. I should have been more considerate.” He glanced around, as if he could find a tree sprouting shoes to fit her amongst the twigs. He stepped close and looked down at his boot dwarfing her bare foot. He shook his head. “I’d let you have them, but I doubt you’d be able to walk in them.”
She chuckled and touched his arm. “I dreamed once about a place where you could find rows and rows of shoes. All sorts and colours. Not plain, but fancy, pointy, straps with metal things catching them. I selected some long red boots. A lady helped me find some that would fit my feet that were the same style as those I picked.” She laughed. “Guess what―she slid the leg section apart as if cutting it with a sharp knife. After I put my foot into the bottom, she slid the leather together again right up to my knee. They were wonderful.”
Trevly studied her. “Very strange.”
“Never mind.” Her dreams of the before-times puzzled her even more. She set off again when she spotted a slumped figure in the grass of a clearing. Trevly! See the body there?” No longer watching her steps, she hurried towards the prone figure, pulling Trevly after her.
“Careful, Wen! We don’t know who he is.”
Cerridwen’s instinct told her he did not sleep. No aura surrounded him. She kneeled by the dead man’s side, while Trevly stood watch. The stranger breathed. Not dead but no colour pulsing around him? Even animals had primitive auras. Who or what was he? Puzzled by his skin, as fair as her own, and his hair, only slightly darker than Trevly’s, she glanced from one man to the other. “He could be your brother, Trevly.”
“Mother Nature has already taken my brothers.” With his own aura the colour of violet, Trevly squatted beside her. “What’s wrong with him?”
“I’m not sure. Why don’t you build a fire to keep us all warm?”
Trevly sniffed. “There’s a fire burning close by.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Careful, Wen. There might be someone in that cave.”
Cerridwen glanced around. Many footsteps had flattened the grass.
“I’ll check it out.”
She grasped his arm. “Don’t risk anything.”
“I don’t hear voices, breathing or heartbeats close by. We should be safe.”
Relieved, she let him go and turned her attention to the injured man. She examined the already healed gash on the back of the stranger’s head. No caked blood. This must be an old wound. She touched it, sensed heat and a swelling. Very strange. What amazing healing powers did this man wield? At a slight moan, she whisked her hand away. He slowly eased on his back. His eyelids flittered.
“Can we move him?” Trevly called.
Cerridwen turned to see him return with a burning piece of wood held on the other end.
“I’ve found a cozy nest.”
* * * *
Rogue mules tried to batter their way to freedom through Caleath’s skull. He concentrated on settling his heartbeat before he risked opening his eyes. Voices, not bickering, but still speaking a bastardised English, intruded on his headache. Smoke, the scent of damp forest and a subtle odour of talent teased his nostrils. No food. He drew a deep breath and explored the areas of pain, remembering contact with the giant with regret. Certain he would heal, and if needed, could defend himself again, Caleath opened his eyes.
Two figures watched him. For a moment the flickering light of a single burning log wedged into the ground illuminated an angel. Caleath blinked. The girl gasped. No, not a girl. He sensed the strength of a woman, though she still carried herself with the innocence of a virgin. Her black hair, blue eyes and fragile figure reminded him of the fairest of the Vergöttern. He stifled a sudden impulse to spend the rest of his life protecting her. Glancing toward the male hovering at her side, he realized where the urge originated. He didn’t envy the man his role. The words offered on his arrival echoed in his head. He must not interfere with the quest this girl embarked on.
“He’ll live, Trevly.” The woman’s voice possessed a magical quality. He wondered if she understood the power she could summon.
“I don’t think we should trust him,” she whispered. “There is darkness, a writhing knot of vipers twisting through his soul, preventing his aura to radiate. He frightens me.”
“Wen, he doesn’t look dangerous. I won’t let you to come to harm.” Trevly stepped out of Caleath’s sight. His voice dropped. “We should help him. Look.”
Wen turned her head. Caleath didn’t risk following her gaze. The mules finally gave up their continuous pounding and he didn’t want to annoy them again.
An awed hiss came from the woman’s throat. She pointed. “What are they doing, Trevly? Three hares coming to your hand?”
“They understand his need for food. Our need. We won’t go hungry today.”
“We never go hungry with you as provider.” Wen’s voice trembled. Caleath smelt the first breath of fear emanate from her trembling throat. “This isn’t right.”
Last night, while Francene and I slept, Wind Over Troubled Waters,the first book in our Higher Ground Series, has been released! Deron Douglas created a stunning cover:
|
Corn World. Britland. After the great flood, only memories, debris and derelict buildings speak of a past civilization. Visions of these disturbing times haunt Cerridwen’s dreams. When her dying mother sends Cerridwen to find a mural in Saint Eyes and lead Britland into a better future, the young healer has little choice but to set out on a life-changing quest. Her ability to perceive auras convinces her to accept nature-attuned Trevly’s offer of protection. Bent on adventure and enthralled by the promise of treasure, beautiful Sasha, cunning Aron and uncut Boris join forces to get the most out of life. Their selfish plans collide with Cerridwen’s when they learn about a powerful ring and a mural pointing the way to its location. |
Over the past three years, I’ve co-written this series of currently four post-apocalyptic fantasy novels with British author Francene Stanley.
For a glimpse of the future we’ve conjured up, read Chapter One. If you like it, why not buy the e-book, also available on amazon.com? The paperback should be released within weeks.
One of the toughest challenges for me as a fledgling writer was to expose myself to fellow writers and ask for their feedback on my stories. Wow, these folks can be picky and harsh. I had to toughen up quickly, because there’s no better place to get a good hiding than a critique group. Now, I’ve got a skin like an armadillo. Don’t ask how much makeup I need to look human. For my novels though it’s better than a week at a health spa.
My writing has improved immensely over the six years at the IWW correctional camp. Beware though. Don’t try to make your story fit every reader’s or critiquer’s preferences or you’ll never finish. And if you finish, you might not recognize or like your own story anymore.
Here’s an example of what might happen if you sign up with a critique group, so you better brace yourself: Rick Bylina has been hassling me for years now on the Internet Writing Workshop, always asking for more. How much scene-setting can a crumbling post-apocalyptic London possibly need? Uhm… Come to think of it, I guess a lot. Just because I can picture it quite clearly in my head doesn’t mean my written words conjure up a similar or any image in the reader’s head. Ah, no matter. I’ll just blame my writing partner Francene Stanley. She’s so much better with descriptions. Doesn’t that mean she should have taken proper care of the scene setting right away?
Ouch! Sorry, Francene! Don’t kick me again, please! I didn’t mean it. Phew, I think she’s gone now although I still hear a slight grumble. Pretty lame excuse that I kept pestering her to get on with her scene so I could jump in and write the next.
Anyway, then this Rick fella asks for proper motivation of the characters’ actions, emotions and reasoning. Shouldn’t it all be obvious? Actually, now that I take a closer look… Maybe he’s right. Okay, fixed.
As if that’s not bad enough, he insists on keeping the distances and time lines straight. Tsk. Anything else, you demanding… uhm, writing buddy? Duh, of course he also wants us to keep up the tension and conflict, make the bush fire more realistic… And if he isn’t exhausted yet, he starts picking on
awkward phrasing, repetitive words and whatnot. And I’m only talking about the latest work in progress here. You don’t want to know what he did to the first novel I submitted to the Internet Writing Workshop. But hey, I found a publisher for Strays of Rio after serious revisions. So I guess I forgive him.
What to do with a critter like that? There’s only one thing: strike back. Give him the hardest critique you can come up with. Of course, it must be well founded so he can’t simply discard it, but will squirm instead, rant to Sydney, his cockatiel, hit the air or desk with his fists. Big advantage of online workshops: he can’t hit me. Yes! 
But then he’ll make his books even better and leave me less to pick on. Darn. A critter’s life can be so hard… There has to be a bright side to all this critiquing drudgery. Hm, maybe I can blame him for all the remaining flaws in my writing? Uhm, no, won’t work. Nobody who reads his books will believe that. Dratted badger, they’ll think I was just too stubborn to follow good advice. Nothing for it but to make my novels the best I can, or Rick might flog me again. Time to sign off and get back to editing!
If you want to find out more about this grumpy critter who is far too good a writer for any rival critter to pull out the cattle prod, check out his blog: http://rickbylina.blogspot.de/.
Montana Scribbler invited me over to her bog to talk about co-writing. It you’re curious, go to her blog and have a look around. My co-author of the Higher Ground series, Francene Stanley wrote a blog post for her two weeks ago. Release time for our first book is drawing closer. Next month…
Rosalie Skinner tagged me when I’d just started revising the final chapter of Long Doom Calling, the fourth book in the Higher Ground series I co-wrote with Francene Stanley. Perfect timing since book one, Wind over Troubled Waters, will be published by Double Dragon Publishing next month. Feeling generous, I decided to use seven paras of page 77 starting on line seven. I didn’t cheat but fixed an error. Since it’s my current wip, I’m allowed to wip it.
|
The Lucky 7 Meme Rules
■Go to page 77 of your current MS/WIP |
Trevly, sitting ahead of her, whispered kind words into the horse’s ear. The creature twitched and pranced, not at all the calm animal that had carried them all this way.
Aron and Sasha caught up with them. “Nice work, White Lady.” He tipped two fingers to his forehead.
“But my white skin doesn’t make me special,” she protested.
“Yeah,” Sasha said. “Makes you look a little sickly.”
That rankled. Her whole life Cerridwen had been the strange one with her light skin colour which easily turned red under the harsh summer sun. And now her friends showed disgust. She glanced sideways at Sasha.
The woman’s shoulders shook then she burst out laughing. “Although I certainly appreciate your talking us out of trouble, White Lady.”
Aron chuckled. Even Trevly turned his head sideways and grinned. A well of happiness sprung up inside Cerridwen. Together they’d influenced a small part of Britland and her light complexion had served their purpose.
Now I need to harass some fellow writers by tagging seven of them.
Amanda Borenstadt
Rick Bylina
Rebecca Gaffron
Holly Michael
Scott Rhoades
Carole Sutton
Arlene Webb
Welcome, Marva. I’ve been hoping to lure you to my blog after reading the first two books of The Witches of Galdorheim. Maybe you’re as naïve and trusting as your heroine Kat.
|
Marva: Do I hear an evil cackle? No, must be my imagination, which has taken me and Kat to far worse places than your blog, Edith.
Edith: Good, here’s my first question. How come a grown woman who’s been working in IT for many years and writing technical documentation turns to writing fantasy for middle graders and young adults? Marva: I’ve always been a big fan of fantasy and science fiction, so the genre isn’t surprising. I tend toward fantasy because I’m an English major, and not much of a scientist. The SF I like makes me believe the extrapolated technology will be just like the author describes. My scientific expertise is definitely in the space opera category. I’m on safe ground when writing fantasy because it can be whatever I darned well please. Fantasy has to be fun for me, so that’s how I write it. I can imagine my stories as animated films. Are you listening, Pixar? |
Edith: I sure hope Pixar is listening.
Marva: Thanks. Now tell me how come a grown woman who’s been working in IT for many years and writing technical documentation likes reading fantasy for middle graders and young adults?
Edith: Uhm, I blame Harry Potter. Kids waiting outside bookstores till they open in the morning to buy the next book baffled and intrigued me. Out of curiosity I read the first one and found myself completely sucked in. I devoured them all. I’d been a Terry Pratchett fan much longer already so the leap wasn’t big. When I stumbled across Bad Spelling, your first book in The Witches of Galdorheim series, the blurb and excerpt immediately caught my attention and made me think of Rincewind’s and Harry’s troubles. Like Rowling and Pratchett, you sure gave your stories a unique spin while playing with familiar themes and myths. Darn, aren’t I supposed to interview you instead of babbling away?
Marva: I’ve got time. What would you like to know?
Edith: There you go again asking me questions. Uhm, sorry. I feel really honored to have you here. Right. Where is Galdorheim? Tell us a little about the place where your magic-wielding characters hide from stakes and pyres and why when they have such superior powers.
Marva: Galdorheim is in the middle of the Barents Sea, east of the Atlantic Ocean and west of the Arctic Ocean, north of Norway, south of Svalbard, and within spitting distance of Novaya Zemlya. I’m sure somebody knows why the area is given its own designation as a sea. On my map, there’s absolutely nothing there. That’s why I thought it an ideal site for the witches of the 15th Century to settle since they didn’t like the idea of being burned at the stake (as you point out). The island is hidden from the outside world by a shield of magic. Mundanes (a common term for non-magical people) can’t see it, so nobody bothers to go there. Part of the island has a dome to protect the village of witches. Inside the dome, it’s year-round spring, while the outside is a frozen wasteland.
All three books begin on Galdorheim. Kat then proceeds to go off the island to get into some kind of trouble. In Bad Spelling, she searching for her father’s family in Siberia. In Midnight Oil, she is traveling with her grandfather and brother to return her deceased father’s body to his homeland. In Scotch Broom, she’s off to Scotland for her Witch’s Winter Abroad. In all the books, I keep to real world locations that have magical creatures in them unseen by the mundanes of the world. She confronts giants, trolls, werewolves, Ceto the sea serpent, a forest elemental spirit, a goddess of the Scottish pantheon, and a variety pack of different types of sidhe (fairies). By the way, fairies don’t look like Tinkerbell.
Edith: Hm, if your fairies don’t look like Tinkerbell, Pixar might lose interest. But then knowing you, the sidhe might look even better. Are you planning to write for adults when your MG/YA readers have grown up, like J.K. Rowling is doing now?
Marva: The nature of fantasy is escape into a more wonderful world than the one in which we live. Adults might read more MG/YA fantasy than actual kids. I’d like my grown-up readers to give their kids my books, along with all the great fantasy available when they’re old enough to read. Personally, I find adult fantasy taking itself far too seriously and often is too violent for my tastes.
Edith: I know what you mean.
Marva: I have written adult science fiction romance, but I’m not comfortable with writing “adult” scenes. Ultimate Duty (Eternal Press) is space opera with at least a reasonable scientific premise on interstellar travel. To appeal to the SFR audience, I have a few R-rated sex scenes. I might continue the story of Remy Belieux since I end Ultimate Duty with the beginnings of a war. A few people said they’d like a sequel. I also wrote a mystery, Missing, Assumed Dead (MuseItUp) which has sweet romance (a little huggy-kissy), but is more about the plot than the romantic involvement of the main characters. I’ve also written a variety of short stories for the adult audience which deal with rape, serial murderers, kidnapping, rendition, and other adult topics. I may very well write more adult material in the form of short stories. I like to make a point in 5000 words or less.
|
Edith: Wow, I just realized there are more of your books and stories for me to check out. Thanks for dropping by, Marva. Times up. It’s kind of boring to talk to a writer when she’s written great books I haven’t read yet. Gotta get Scotch Broom and more…
Marva: Right, Scotch Broom, the third book in the Witches of Galdorheim series, was just released from MuseItUp Publishing. I’m writing a bunch of posts about the creatures, characters, and settings that I’ll dole out through the month of May at the Summer Teen Reading Party. (chirp chirp chirp sayeth the crickets) Anyone still out there? Oh well, it’s certainly more fun to conjure up a new novel than giving strange interviews. Oops. Is this blog still recording? Thanks, Edyth, uhm, Edith. It’s been a … pleasure to talk to you. |
|
Find out more about Marva Dasef at her web site, watch the trailer for Scotch Broom or buy her books.
Boy, I sure overdid it with the sowing of more chili plants. Last year I bought an assortment of chilies we didn’t have yet, a green Jalapeno, a red Fresno and a yellow Habanero. Twelve of twelve Fresnos sprouted, eight of the twelve Habaneros, but only two Jalapenos of maybe thirty seeds or so. No wonder since they weren’t ripe yet. For some of them we already have ‘foster homes’ lined up. Three of the five Habanero plants we kept inside over the winter are doing very well. The most pampered one is already blooming! Just thinking of how much of last year’s harvest we still have in the freezer is quite stressful. Anyone knows a good recipe for chili jam? Hm, maybe there is a story lurking in there…
But then, aren’t they cute? These are the young little Habaneros, possibly the orange type. When we bought the fruit it was yellow and extremely hot!
Suddenly my writing starts to foreshadow my life. Spooky. Maybe because I do little else that could take over the task? Last fall, Francene Stanley and I finished the forth book of our Higher Ground series. Silly me had the idea to let Trevly’s senses fail, starting with his hearing. I don’t want to give away too much, but guess what? A few weeks ago, my right ear acted up. Everything sounded muffled and a little tinny or scratchy. I suspected a blockage of ear wax and ignored the problem for now. More interesting things to do than going to the doctor.
A few days later, I had trouble focusing on the screen. That certainly got my attention. Off I ran to seek help. A new story was forming in my head and I needed to see what I typed! I quickly realized it might take a while before I could start. From ear doctor to eye doctor to neurologist I went and finally ended up in the hospital for thorough testing. From the first day on, I called it the Adventure Hotel in my mind.
Once again, I had to think of Trevly when they shoved me into the MRI and it grew warmer and warmer. Quite some parallels–Oops. I better watch my fingers to avoid spoilers. I did not only get earmuffs to reduce the sound, but a headset and great music. The DJ sure had a sick sense of humor playing Fly Away early on. Couldn’t agree more to the line “Oh I want to get away.” When “Ring of Fire” came on as the tube heated up, I almost laughed out loud. Have to admit that I did take the blue pill to keep me relaxed.
Turns out that with the first manuscript (MS) about to be published, I had my first fit of multiple sclerosis (MS). Yikes, now I’ve really overdone it with the foreshadowing. But don’t worry, like Trevly I’m soaring.
While this disease of a thousand faces might keep me on my toes, it’s been very gentle to me. Almost feels like it nudged me to go to the doctor as soon as possible. When I didn’t react, it kicked me into action by affecting my sight, which is completely restored now thanks to cortisone infusions. It encourages me to get more exercise and eat healthily while I’m still allowed to enjoy German beer or a nice wine.
I might tell you some of the tales of the Adventure Hotel if you drop by again. I didn’t expect to laugh so much while there. As one of the nurses joked, electric jolts are supposed to be good for your brain activity. Not sure I’ll go back for recharging if I need new inspiration. I’m on an MS trip not an SM one. But I’ll happily return if the MS takes me by the scruff of my neck again, trying to shake some sense into me. The day after my release from the Adventure Hotel, MuseItUp Publishing accepted my manuscript Crumple Zone. An MS for an MS? Maybe I should become a trucker? No, too dangerous with all those killer tomatoes around!
I’m gonna write away!
